City Lights:

I’m too happy to care about Christmas.

That’s the blissful conclusion I’ve come to after so many years of wondering if age had turned me into a Grinch. Some people make a public display of hating Christmas, and there have been times when I’ve grown annoyed at the commercialism of the holidays and the incessant songs cranked over the radio. But that’s all past.

I know that the holidays signify many things to many people. They have a religious meaning for some, though not for me. They may represent a chance to gather with family or make resolutions, and I’m all for those things. Some people just enjoy walking downtown in the cold air, hearing the music and seeing the lights strung up, and I enjoy that too. It’s a season of togetherness, and to detest it completely would require a true misanthrope — or Christopher Hitchens, the Slate columnist who compared December in America to spending a month in North Korea.

It’s just . . . well, how does that Beatles song go? Nothing’s gonna change my world.

I feel excited on Christmas morning, but I feel excited the other 364 mornings of the year, unless, of course, I have jury duty or a dentist’s appointment. I acknowledge my loved ones from the fourth Thursday of November through Dec. 31, but I don’t ignore them the rest of the year. And I stopped caring about presents about a decade ago. I have enough nice possessions, and I don’t require other people to empty their wallets on my behalf.

When I was a kid, I was a Christmas junkie. Most kids are. In the weeks starting after Thanksgiving and climaxing on the 25th, I went through what psychiatrists politely refer to as “stages” — first anticipation, then agony, then a kind of withdrawal as the day approached too slowly. That’s why the movie “A Christmas Story” has such a huge following: Who can’t remember being like Ralphie, spending the holidays pining for a BB gun or some other coveted prize?

Well, that’s all fun up to a point. But it has some nasty side effects, too. When we circle a day on the calendar and tell ourselves it will be the most magical or fulfilling day of the year, we’re selling the other days a little short. When we yearn for the possessions we’re going to get on the 25th, we imply to ourselves that the things we have now (which we probably got for Christmas last year) aren’t measuring up.

And there’s more than a little lock step involved. Celebrating any holiday, by nature, means celebrating because the calendar says so and other people are doing it. And who’s to say we won’t feel more festive or gregarious in mid-March than we do the week before New Year’s?

There are a number of dates that I do celebrate, if not with a party, then at least with a moment of remembrance. Birthdays are important to me, because they’re individualized; they signify that someone I know has passed another hurdle on life’s path.

Sometimes, I’ll spot a date coming up and recall a person I met on that day years ago or an experience I had that stayed with me ever since. We have squares on the calendar telling us when it’s time to be thankful or join hands or show affection, but life always ends up being improvised.

So when the Christmas lights go up this month, when the carols emanate from every store, when the politicians and rock stars and chief executives send out messages wishing a happy holiday season, I’ll just smile. Rituals are rituals, and there’s some fun to be had with them. But I won’t wait until Dec. 25 to try to enjoy life to its fullest. I’ll try to do that today.

City Editor MICHAEL MILLER can be reached at (714) 966-4617 or at michael.miller@latimes.com .