I have figured out why Boxing Day is called Boxing Day. I always thought that it was because the day after Christmas is when you clean up all of the boxes from the Christmas booty and you put away all of the Christmas ornaments in boxes, or you would if you were not in my family of procrastinators where the tree goes up on Christmas Eve and stays up until the snow melts (this year the tree went up on Christmas day at 3 p.m. We suck.) No, Boxing Day must be named for all the boxing style fights that go on during Boxing Day shopping when people are battling toward their favorite deal and find that someone else has his hot little hands on the last coveted item and something goes 'snap' in their brain. Or I suppose when people get overwhelmed by hearing "BOXING DAY SALE" eleventy billion times and contract BOXING DAY MADNESS and run through the streets fighting with people over their purchases.

At five a.m. on Boxing Day I heard a strange noise, tinny music playing off in the distance. Somewhat intrigued, I reluctantly swam towards consciousness and Paul whispering in my ear "Time to get up". What on earth would cause me to climb out of bed at five in the a.m., since the phrase "not a morning person" is not strong enough to describe me? Is it watching the sunrise? Surely not, the sun will still be up whatever time I crawl out of bed. Is it to catch a Boxing Day sale, a new printer on cheap cheap cheap while our printer has recently become problematic? I think not, you know how much money I would pay for extra sleep, especially when I had none the night before. Is it the guilt that my new husband would probably go and brave the crowds all by himself to bring said printer triumphantly home? You got it! As I later muttered grumpily at Paul, there is no one else that I would get up at five in the morning for.

We dressed quickly, brushed teeth, grabbed a bottle of Yop to share and headed out to South Common. Both of us were relieved to find that yesterdays rain, which had frozen on walks and roads had not frozen on the car. There are few experiences more aggravating than attempting to scrape off the frozen-on freezing rain that has shellacked your vehicle overnight, and the resulting associated strained muscles and skinned-bloody knuckles.

On our drive, we passed another eletronics- and media-based store where insanity reigned. Throngs of anxious patrons mobbed the sidewalk and parking lot around the doors, each hoping for that super deal that would make getting up too early worth the sacrifice. Soon we pulled into view of the blue and yellow building that was our destination. The base of the building couldn't even be seen through the throng of humanity that surrounded it, and we were approaching from the back side. We quickly found a parking spot and, after a fall by Paul on the slippery sidewalk, joined the line.

I was becoming relatively certain, based on the length of the line, that the object of our quest would have vanished into thin air by the time we got inside. Surely a good printer at less than half price would be a popular item and all we would find would be a sad sign hanging and perhaps some dust bunnies or tumbleweed to mark the deserted location.

At five to six the line shuffled cautiously forward on the icy walks, each person yearning hopefully, if blearily, after the deals contained therein. Soon we were accepting our free gum and chocolate bar samples as we swept though the entrance and into chaos.

Paul forged ahead and I followed in his wake as he strode toward the Holy Grail (a.k.a. the cheap printer). We found it within moments and stared in awe at the stack that was left. We quickly staked our claim and set off in search of discount ink supplies and paper (not to mention a quick run through 'TV on DVD', our not-so-secret vice). Our quest thus completed we joined the trek to salavation, otherwise known as the cashier. The line snaked through the store along a bright yellow rope that followed the main aisle, lined with attractive bargains.

We floated merrily along our path, avoiding dangerous side streams and staying with the main flow. Oh, no! What's that up ahead? A logjam! The blue-shirted employee smoothly directed us into the smallest side stream of all: in line behind a family of six with an overflowing cart waiting on a single cashier-in-training. Ages after we should have been out the door we were scrounging for change because the trainee's credit card machine had stopped working.

Finally we surged toward the door, clutching our prize triumphantly. It was only seven a.m. and we had survived Boxing Day shopping. Eight o'clock found us snuggled on our couch watching Serenity DVD bloopers and we were back abed by nine, dreaming dreams of new photo printers with separate ink cartridges.