Would the real Mark Gentili please stand up?

If you were to speak with my wife, she'd tell you I've gone a little Christmas crazy this year.

A couple of Saturdays ago, I jumped out of bed with the sudden — and uncharacteristic — desire to transform my little Coniston home into a holiday wonderland par excéllence.

Chantal looked at me strangely. I hadn't even made coffee yet. "Are you high?" she asked. I laughed. She didn't. Did I mention I hadn't made coffee yet?

"C'mon, let's go buy Christmas decorations!" I demanded in a tone that I thought said, "Let's go have some fun, my darling wife!" but which might have come across more like "I'm going regardless, so you better come with me or else I'll return with stuff that'll make it look like a Chinese tinsel factory exploded in our living room."

To ensure that very thing didn't happen, Chantal got up and got ready to hit the road. I also promised to buy her coffee and lunch to sweeten the deal. Secretly, I think the prospect of keeping me in line was the biggest draw.

Anyway, by the time we returned after lunch, we'd hit several stores. Chantal was a real trooper. There was bag upon bag of the gaudiest, sparkliest decorations I was allowed to buy (and a few I sneaked into the basket when Chantal was distracted). I bought wreathes, little ceramic tchotchkes, giant bows, table runners and cloths — but the best ones had lights. Twinkling, as far as I'm concerned, says "Christmas" better than anything else.

When I sit on my couch, there's nary a surface devoid of some mark of the season. My walls look like the works of Jackson Pollock if he had worked in glitter instead of paint. It's awesome. And a little weird. My enthusiasm for Christmas decorations this year is somewhat out of character. Don't get me wrong, I'm no crank who hates Christmas. Far from it. But I'm not one to be terribly demonstrative about it either. A Christmas tree and a few lights usually do me fine around the house.

Outside the house, it's a different story. I'm not interested in decorating my desk at work. You won't catch me in an ugly Christmas sweater. There's an irony to the practice that just rubs me the wrong way. In poking fun at Christmas — gentle fun that it is — it's not in the spirit of the season for me. Plus, it insults well-meaning elderly grandmothers and aunts everywhere, and for that I will not stand.

You will also never catch me sporting a festive tie. No offence to those who find it amusing, it's just a personal preference. More like a code, really. I find it insulting to a good suit to finish it off deliberately with a cravat emblazoned with Christmas lights (the one time twinkling is a bad thing), Santa Claus faces repeating Warhol-esque, or cavorting reindeer. A line must be drawn somewhere.

Ditto for putting antlers on my vehicle. Again, if that's your thing, I'm happy for you. But it's just not me.

Still, for whatever reason, I really want to feel wrapped in the bosom of Christmas this year. Perhaps it's a subconscious response to the weather. Maybe my brain, deep down, believes the more festive I make my home, the better the chance it will snow.

For the record, I'm on Team No Snow. I know, I know, it's just not Christmas without it. I can understand that sentiment. But my desire to avoid winter at all costs knows no bounds. I'll take Christmas without it, happily.

But maybe, just maybe, the little Mark who lives in my head wants the snow-filled Christmases of his youth. Remember how high snowbanks seemed when you were small? Like these great pillowy mountains of white, just waiting to be climbed and conquered. Remember trudging through snow up to your thighs as you forded a snowy field in search of a tree? Finding the right one always brought a smile that let you know by the numbness of your cheeks how long the hunt had been.

There's a kind of magic to memory, isn't there? Perhaps it's the Irish part of me, but I can so easily fall into reverie. Christmas tends to bring that out in me more. And this year in particular.

I don't think there's a desperation in my desire to ensconce myself in Christmas at home, though. It's been a good and challenging 2015 in the Gentili household. Our son moved from grade school to high school in a most spectacular fashion, pulling down grades he didn't earn in elementary. Our daughter said goodbye to single digits when she turned 10 and is finding her place (and her voice) with singing and guitar lessons. My wife is a fantastic — and eminently patient — woman whom I love more today than ever before.

My job affords me the ability, on the best days, to contribute to our community in the most beneficial way I know. Sometimes we are the target of anger and sometimes we're the target of praise, but we aim always to act in the interests of the public good because Greater Sudbury is our home, too. The news business is an unbelievably challenging and an unbelieveably rewarding experience, and 2015 has been no different.

Whatever the reason, I'm glad it's Christmas. The thought of it makes me smile even as I write this. We've still got a bunch of shopping to do, but I'm actually looking forward to it. So far I've kept the pledge I made last holiday season, and I've been an absolute delight (if I do say so myself) while out cruising the stores this year. Ask Chantal, she'll vouch.

And, truth be told, I wouldn't even mind if it snowed. But don't tell Chantal that — I've a reputation to uphold.

Mark Gentili is the managing editor of Northern Life and NorthernLife.ca.