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Black Friday just irritates my soul. A lot of good people out saving money and buying sweetheart surprises ought to bring loving tears to my eyes, but it doesn’t. Instead of good vibes, I gasp at the thought of secondhand oxygen and bracing for the bumps and bruises from shopping carts that will invade my space.

Maybe I’m claustrophobic or seasonally Claustrophobic. In a world where so many people need love and touch and togetherness, I am smothered by all that unintended attention. I’m like a biscuit that was looking for honey but got a double ladle of gravy instead.

In "Miracle on 34th Street" people fall in love at a crowded Macy’s. That seems like looking for love in all the wrong places, but emotional attachments are hard to explain. Bread understood a part of it when they sang

“Maybe I'm-a crazy, but I just can't live without
Your lovin' and affection, givin' me direction.”

Pepé Le Pew captures my view. All that closeness is appealing, but when it happens, some of us skunks get pretty confused and run from the heart darts of Cupid. I leave the mall immediately.

I’m actually not dense enough to think that Black Friday investors are building relationships with anyone. Sure, we’re connected. My backside is apparently a part of their cart. That’s not affection. That’s an invasion of aluminum or some other menacing metal. I feel their heart beats only because they’re reaching over my shoulder to grab whatever prize I thought was mine. Being that close will get you a wedding certificate in three states.

When the masses gather for Christmas marketing discounts, our limbic system falters a bit. The amygdala malfunctions. Feelings like pleasure, fear, anxiety and anger flicker on and off erratically.

The soothing music and bright packages cast a spell. A sense of trust of our fellow man warms our souls. Simultaneously the coldness of Black Friday veterans overwhelms us when the last shelved iPad is ripped from our hands by someone’s great-grandmother. The peace of agape passion will not return until she reaches for some wrapping paper and the iPad is lifted from her cart. Stealth shopping revives our spirits and may earn us a ticket to hell.

All that roller coaster of sensations hardly seems healthy or fiscally sound. The Siren of Black Friday sings “Treat Yourself” so sweetly. Her hypnotic phrase entices us to forget that grandma got run over by a reindeer and that there’s a guy named Nick looking for our chimney. We let our guard down just enough to become susceptible to being taken advantage of. In ancient times Sailors tied themselves to the mast when her voice tempted them. Why aren’t we temporarily burying our checkbooks and credit cards in turkey carcasses on Thanksgiving Day?

The truth is I long for a day when smiles and hugs will replace the materialism of the season. Good will toward men and peace on earth would be so refreshing. But until then I’m setting my alarm for 11:00 p.m. and hitting the retail stores late … even weeks late. Leftovers satisfy my appetites at the dinner table and at the department stores.