“Get up,” Joan said as she kicked the couch.

Without opening his eyes, her husband Tom – lying on the couch – groaned and rubbed his stomach. “Just get the kids to help you.”

“Every year you do this. For the past thirty-seven years we’ve set up our Christmas tree after Thanksgiving dinner. Yet every year, you stuff yourself to the point where you just lie on the couch like a lump.”

Opening one eye, Tom smiled. “Yet every year you’re surprised.”

Joan didn’t reply to that.

Closing his eye, Tom shrugged. “Besides, you can’t mess with tradition.”