Now that Christmas 2017 is over, I feel like I can come to grips with what happened to me this year and tell my story.

I went to my apartment’s leasing office a few days before Christmas to pick up a package from Amazon. Everything seemed normal. The office was festive enough, appropriately decorated with Santa-hat seat back covers and various other Christmas paraphernalia. While the leasing agent went to retrieve my package I reflected on how wonderful it was that people were finally celebrating Christmas again, just as Trump had promised.

Then it happened.

The leasing agent returned and handed over my Amazon goodies. I thanked her and she replied with the words I thought we had managed to eradicate from our vernacular.

“Happy Holidays,” she said.

Numb from the shock of such a sudden assault I replied, “you too” and left.

How long did I wander in the cold winter air before I recovered my senses enough to find my apartment? I will never know. If I lived in a colder climate I would likely be dead from frostbite.

I thought we’d put this “Happy Holidays” nonsense behind us. I thought we had released the phrase “Merry Christmas” from the cruel bondage of political correctness. I thought the election of Trump was the end of the War on Christmas.

I guess I was wrong.