Upon swearing to myself that I would never write another Christmas column, I promptly sat down at the computer and filled my head with visions of dancing sugar plums.

(This was not an easy feat, for I have never laid eyes upon a sugar plum. I simply imagined a little plum with legs and a top hat sprinkled with sugar. It would be hard to dance without little legs and the top hat must be a necessity, I never saw Fred Astaire without one. Then again, maybe I've never seen Fred Astaire either. I bet he looks like Mr. Bojangles, only the white version. I know a song about him). Now that I have thoroughly gotten off track, allow me to continue with my standard weekly drivel.

I went Christmas shopping for the first time this week. Prior to that, I had purchased nothing.

I went out to find that "perfect" gift for everyone on my little list. The ones on top of the list are in good shape, their gifts get a great deal of pondering and consideration.

However, those lower on the list do not get such fine treatment.

For some reason, when I go shopping for someone, I start out with a clear conscience and a big heart - did I mention a lean wallet?

Well, that is at least for the first few gifts. I found my first gift after shopping around for about half an hour through items for which I had no use whatsoever. During that time, I had my foot run over with a cart, was sideswiped, bumped, pushed and nearly careened by a pack of roving elementary children on their way to destroy the toy section of the department store. As you can guess, the more I was harassed, bumped, pushed and generally abused by the raucous crowd, the faster I wanted to get out of this hellish shopping spree and the less time I spent picking out gifts.

You see, I don't go shopping any more than I absolutely must. In other words, I probably go to a department store about three to six times per year on average. Sadly, one of those times is Christmas - that great pinnacle of American consumerism. I would gladly marry just to be able to sit in the car and wait like my father always did. I don't think mom minded.

As I am slightly agoraphobic (I can't believe I remembered that word), especially where shopping is concerned, the whole event was rather traumatizing.

At any rate, by the time I got down to the "small" gifts, I am afraid that I spent very little time indeed. Everyone got something from the housewares department (I suppose that is what it is called these days).

The reason was quite simple: It was the least crowded area in the store. I hope my friends won't mind getting potholders for Christmas. At least it is something they can use.

Next, I noticed a lady with two children, one crying and the other laughing. The laughing one was bopping the smaller, crying child with a plastic bat. As for the mother, she was smartly dressed with what may have been a neat hairdo at one time - the ends had pulled free of the silver comb she had it held in and were fraying out every which way. She was attempting to separate the two kids. I felt an intense longing to help the woman, only set back by my will to not interfere.

It reminded me of Christmas shopping with my own dear mother - it never happened. Soon the little woman had been blocked from view by the milling crowd. She was wise enough to leave me in the car with my father when she went shopping. She knew I would drive her insane.

People are fun to watch in a situation like that, where they don't realize anyone is looking. It is kind of like tuning in to Wild Kingdom was when I was a kid. That is really the only part of shopping I enjoy.

The only good thing about the whole experience is that it is over with, at least for another year.

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