Now here’s an image worth a holiday chuckle: a dozen naked women in the gym locker room rushing to get their pants on to the tune of “Jingle Bells.”

“I wish they would just kill the music,” one woman says, and we all laugh.

For the moment the gym is my support group. These women, I’m guessing, are going after the endorphin buzz during the holidays because alcohol and recreational drugs don’t work anymore. Like me, they can’t pray or meditate right now either. Every time they close their eyes, they have visions of the angry Santa Clause at the mall, infinite check-out lines at Toys-R-Us, and the crisis of no stocking-stuffer ideas. The only peace available to me and my soul sisters is acquired by getting our heart rates into the fat-burning zone—running, cycling, or climbing the calories away to the North Pole, where we will eat them up again.

If it weren’t for the two-hour childcare limit, I’d stay on the treadmill all day this week, getting off only to consume candy-cane cookies and coffee. That’s how much I love Christmas.