Every December it was the same excruciating tradition. Our family would get up at the crack of dawn, go to a Christmas tree farm and tromp across acres of snow in search of the perfect tree. Hours later our feet would be freezing, but Mom would press on, convinced the tree of her dreams was “just up ahead.” One year I snapped. “Mom, face it. The perfect tree doesn't exist. It's like looking for a man. Just be satisfied if you can find one that isn't dead, doesn't have too many bald spots and is straight.”
我們每年12月都要經(jīng)歷同樣痛苦的傳統(tǒng)。全家天蒙蒙亮就起床,到圣誕樹林場(chǎng),踏過(guò)廣袤的雪地,尋找完美的樹。幾個(gè)小時(shí)以后,我們的腳凍僵了,而媽媽仍然催我們,讓我們相信她夢(mèng)中的樹就在前面。有一年,我不干了:“媽媽,現(xiàn)實(shí)一點(diǎn)。完美的樹并不存在,就像找男人一樣。如果你能找到一棵沒(méi)死的、沒(méi)有太多禿斑的、直的樹,就該滿足了。”