We all know that one family ‘character,’ and let’s be real, it’s probably us. But which oddball? Not to worry, science has given us the perfect personality quiz to deconstruct your Christmas spirit, no Scrooge flashbacks required. Do you vibe with Advent or chill with Easter? I thought you’d say that. 

IF YOUR FAVORITE SEASON IS ADVENT

You arrive at the old family home. A fireplace pops and crackles, the room smells like nutmeg, and the grandkids leap up from their spots by the tree. Their little eyes grow wide with excitement as they see what you brought. You’re hauling a massive box, perfectly wrapped. Carefully sliding it off the dolly, you smile apologetically at your father, whose frown reads “I will absolutely speak to you later about those tread marks you left on the new carpet.” It was all worth it, though, for this present. It’s huge. Standing before the tree is the kind of box a kid could live in, a box that screams “rocket ship,” “float in this thing down a river,” “trap your little sister inside and weigh it down with books.” What could possibly be inside? 

All evening, the kids whisper. Roasting chestnuts, your nephew George asks if it’s a giant teddy bear. At church, little Susie tugs your sleeve to ask if it’s a server farm. No, you tell Susie, with a glimmer in your eye; it’s even better. The kids sleep fitfully, dreaming of possibilities. A column of Jell-o? Thousands of tiny drones? An elevator to a magical warehouse? 

Finally, it’s Christmas morning. Little hands tear at the gift wrap and rip open the box flaps. With a thud, they hit more cardboard. Tearing this apart, another thud. And another. And another. Yes, it’s a box in a box in a box in a box in a box in a box. 

Does it even matter what’s at the bottom? To you, it isn’t about the reward at the end, it’s about the anticipation. “The journey, bruh,” you explain as the children turn their now spiteful eyes upon you. “Patience is its own reward little buddy.” 

IF YOUR FAVORITE SEASON IS CHRISTMAS

If you and Buddy the Elf (you know, from that movie?) had a gift wrap showdown, a three-stage fight to the ribbony death, you would emerge victorious, covered in the glitter that poofs from elf wounds before they give up the ghost and are sucked into an extradimensional portal where their consciousness is uploaded to the next elf. You, friend, are the Alpha Elf. 

Your friends are celebrating their first Christmas together since they moved back to your town by making a batch of Alton Brown’s aged eggnog. “Ha!” you exclaim, “I have been aging tonight’s eggnog since the birth of Christ himself!” And you press a button hidden under your Hummel figurine case, causing the whole cabinet to spin outward, revealing a wine cellar the likes of which Pete Buttigieg has never seen. It’s filled with vats of the finest ancient nog. 

Leading your friends into the cavern by torchlight, they are bombarded by smells: here, freshly baked cookies; there, peppermint mocha; some hickory wafts by, and it all mixes together like the first floor of a Macy’s. It’s pleasant, and also threatening. 

What’s this? A babe is born! Your friend’s ankle hits a tripwire, and as their fiance catches them mid-fall, a delightful miracle descends from the ceiling -- a flash of light arcs across the room, exploding in a shower of sparks. “BETHLEHEM, ZERO A.D.” booms a deep voice from subwoofers hidden in the walls. The nog vats tremble. A creche, guided by a complex system of belts and pulleys, rockets out of the darkness. Your guests can’t quite make it out by firelight, but you know every centimeter of the Holy Family was painstakingly crafted by hand of the finest porcelain, inlaid with diamonds and precious metals, forged by Saint Nicholas himself. The newborn Messiah’s enormous ruby eyes glimmer in the flickering, divine light. He is also 30 feet tall.

Your friends hold each other in the shadow of the infant colossus. “Hark the herald,” you growl, sliding on some dope sunglasses made of candy canes as a trap remix of “Silent NIght,” emerging from everywhere and somehow nowhere, grows louder.

“Angels sing.”

The bass drops.

IF YOUR FAVORITE SEASON IS EPIPHANY

It’s tough strapping your gifts to the back of your fixie bike, and it’s even tougher to make a left out of this antique mall parking lot. The twine holding the boxes in place creaks as you hurtle into traffic. Snowflakes catch on your perfectly oiled stache and you smile to yourself because here, in the rapidly gentrifying “taco mecca” your mother bought you an apartment in, you must look just out of a Wes Anderson film. His earlier work. Obviously.

Weaving among the cars, you signal another turn with $65 gloves you cut to be fingerless, and the air is suddenly suburban and still. You take inventory as you roll toward your mother’s house wearing Converse and a sweater with a deer in glasses smoking a pipe. For your sister, a book of poetry you bought in a used bookstore thinking you’d use it to flirt with the cashier, and failing that never opened. You bet it’s subversive. For your little cousin, their very own french press so they can practice making good coffee. Tonight will be a great opportunity to explain in excruciating detail how the sun’s angle on a coffee crop affects roast depth.

Your Advent calendar isn’t like the others - yours has a craft whiskey behind each door. It wasn’t like the other whiskey Advent calendars either - you distilled it yourself and built it a little calendar hutch with your new wood working skills you’ve picked up since breaking up with Alex. Ugh, Alex. They couldn’t see that you weren’t like the other guys.

Yeah, you have tattoos. Who cares, what does it even matter? Who are you gonna tell, your mom? 

Right, mom. Her gift is the best of all. An overly complicated steampunk cover for her light switches and a framed print of the Brooklyn Bridge. You’re from Ohio.

IF YOUR FAVORITE SEASON IS LENT

“Ugh, I just get so many of these damn things at the supermarket, but at least they aren’t throwing those plastic death traps my way!” You laugh as your grandkid helps you unpack your Prius trunk. The coexist bumper sticker rises with the trunk door to reveal a cabin filled with identical boxes wrapped in Trader Joes paper bags. You actually keep forgetting what’s inside the gifts, partly because of the wrapping, and partly because you fish the same boxes out of the recycling every year to store in your hall closet and use next Christmas.

As you enter the warmth of your daughter’s home, you are overjoyed to see everyone - and then your gaze falls upon it.

“Meredith,” you whisper, “may I speak to you over here?”

She rolls her eyes and, handing baby Joey to her partner, joins you by the green (ugh) thing. 

You pinch the plastic needles of this ‘pine’ tree. “Mer, this is a monument to consumption. Do you think Jesus would have wanted us honoring his birth by boiling the remains of ancient dinosaurs at rest and melting that petrol down into these poisonous boughs?”

“Momma, you know Pat’s allergic to the real trees…”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. Out of my control, you tell yourself, all you can do is pray. With a smile, you wrap your daughter in an embrace. Neither of you say anything, but in your heart, you know she hears you; out of the corner of your eye, you spotted the compost bin out on the back deck.

IF YOUR FAVORITE SEASON IS EASTER

The future! It’s a-coming, and you need to plan. What’s more, you need to learn to plan! You might only be two years old, but Jimmy I’m writing to you from a beautiful, scenic land of delights we call “retirement.” Yes, once you’re done learning your ABCs and using them to generate some hard-earned income, you’re going to reach the twilight years of your life and think to yourself, “boy I sure am glad Aunt Gladys sent me those federal bonds when I was young.”

Well Jimmy, you’re welcome. See, this hundred dollars has a projected 30 year yield of 1.67%. Do you know what that means, Jimmy? That right there, that’s hope. That’s knowing that at the end of the line, when push comes to shove, you’ve got some money in the bank. Yes, that’s the confidence of an old man whose Aunt Gladys gave him future pretend promise money he couldn’t spend when he was young. It may seem like this envelope is filled with made up mambo-jumbo, but when you’re my age, Jimmy? When you’re my age you’ll look back on all those trucks and dolls and bikes and think to yourself, “God I’d give any one of those presents away for some eschatological hope right now.” And Jimmy? God invented the US Treasury Bond. Merry Christmas.

IF YOUR FAVORITE SEASON IS THE SEASON AFTER PENTECOST

It’s a bike. Everyone knows it’s a bike. You covered it in wrapping paper and a few bows, but it has two wheels and a handlebar. Why even pretend? We’re all exhausted and it’s vacation for crying out loud. For the record, it’s a nice bike. Just a little, I don’t know, expected. Couldn’t you have asked Santa for a sabbatical? No, I get it. We did ask for a bike. I’m gonna go take a nap.