I love holiday shopping. Picking out presents, crossing the names off the list, wrapping all the gifts. Every year it seems an insurmountable task. Every year it’s accomplished far too easily. And every year is more satisfying than the last.

This year it seemed there might even be time for something more extravagant: decorating. Call it cocky. Whatever.

There was talk of a tree. It was obvious, however, that our four-hundred-square-foot Brooklyn apartment could barely hold one, even one of a modest size. So, nixed.

Discussion revolved around garlands. Too much work, it was decided. Forget it.

It was on a particularly cold late-afternoon, after buying wrapping paper, that the idea of a nice, small, easy-to-hang, out-of-the-way wreath came up. Walking toward the subway, passing someplace that might, possibly, probably did sell wreaths, I, tired of shopping, ventured that I’d be happier not shopping for it just yet, if at all.

‘Come on. Let’s just do it now. It won’t take long.’

‘I’m tired. And, seriously, I can’t even talk about Christmas anymore. If I talk about Christmas anymore today I’m going to puke up an elf.’

‘Hey, free elf.’