It was when I didn't get a robot. That's when Christmas started to lose its luster for me.

The idea came from a JC Penney catalog. That's a dated reference, isn't it? For the sake of younger readers, I'll explain: Back when we were all getting around via buckboard, JC Penney -- that store in the mall that you never go to -- used to send out massive catalogs that were thicker than a family Bible.

I've just referenced the JC Penney catalog, buckboards, and family Bibles -- apparently this column is being written in 1907.

Anyway, the catalogs held hours of fascination for me. I used to thumb through them while I listened to my dad's record player (yep, this column is being written in 1907). For a good decade, the JC Penney catalog was my primary reading material. As a boy, I spent my time looking at the toys; when I got a bit older, my attention turned to the pictures of women modeling bras.

It was in the days before I knew the importance of crisscross support that I found the article proclaiming: "YOUR VERY OWN PERSONAL ROBOT." Next to this was a picture of a space-age looking thing holding a tray, upon which rested a glass of orange juice.

"Wow," I thought to myself. "If this thing can pour a glass of orange juice, it could probably clean my room, too."

The catalog listed the robot's cost as $700. My request was immediately and unequivocally rejected by my parents. This was in the early 1980s; for that kind of money my parents could have given me a reliable used car.

Looking back on it, I can't even begin to guess why that thing would have cost so much. I am impressed that my father didn't just rear back and belt me for making such a ridiculous request.

"No," he said flatly. "Think of something else."

"I don't want something else," I said.

"Fine. That's one less house for Santa to visit this year."

But I kept at it. I asked and asked and asked. And I was convinced that on Christmas morning, an orange-juice-dealing robot would be waiting for me in my grandmother's den. I would be the envy of all the kids in my neighborhood, and my robot and I would be best friends.

Needless to say, my Christmas was, as the French put it, sans robot. I was forced to make due with a mountain of toys, the vast majority of which were destroyed or forgotten within a week.

Obviously, I had completely missed the point of the holiday. Some part of me realized that, but wasn't really able to put it together. So, I began the long process of falling out of love with Christmas.

Of course I continued to enjoy not having to go to school, and people giving me candy and the annual bag of white tube socks from my grandmother, but by my teens the time of year had become procedural. I bought gifts for as few people as possible. I gave gifts only if I felt I had to. My girlfriend in college received a sweater three years in a row. Is it any wonder she broke up with me?

These days, though, I am married to a woman who loves Christmas. She comes from a family of Christmas fanatics -- in her parents' house there are no less than three Christmas trees year-round. There's a British pop song that famously asks: "Do they know it's Christmas?" If they live anywhere near my in-laws, the answer is yes.

When we first married, I struggled to understand my wife's fondness for Christmas. I can remember thinking: "Really? She really sings Christmas carols in the house? Really?! What's wrong with this girl?"

I followed her traditions out of obligation. But as the years have worn on, I find myself becoming more enthusiastic. I am now at the point where my general feeling about Christmas is: "Hey, it's not so bad."

Almost certainly, wherever you are in the United States, there is a billboard in your town right now reminding you in huge, garish letters of the "Reason For The Season." But I have friends who are Jewish, Buddhist, Muslim, pagan and atheist, and all of them participate in Christmas. Rightly or wrongly, Christmas in the modern age is a dual-purpose holiday. And I think that's what I like about it.

When Christmas is all-inclusive, that's when I like it best. What I like about the holiday, the season, is that sense that it might be OK to be nice to people. Generally, if I open a door for someone, they look at me with skepticism. And I'll admit to carrying around an unhealthy level of cynicism toward most other people. But around Christmas, I sort of let my guard down. Some part of me wants to give people the benefit of the doubt.

I feel strangely positive at this time of year. Now I find myself singing and dancing around almost as much as my wife. Almost. I'd be a lot happier, though, if someone were to give me a robot.