I'm not really into Easter, any more.
Years ago, when my parents used to drag me to church, Easter was cool. The songs were much better than those of Good Friday, and I liked the flowers and the church all decorated with white. It was very pretty after all the lugubrious black and purple of Lent. Chocolate bunnies and coloured hard boiled eggs were a treat, as was dinner. I usually had a new dress, but often had to wear my winter coat over it, as Easter in British Columbia tended to be damp and cold.
My current ennui stems from more...biological...sources.
No matter how you slice it, dice it, Christianize it and make it about the Risen Lord, Easter is rebirth, renewal and fecundity. In a word, sex.
(It's not only the Lord who is expected to rise at Easter, if you know what I mean.) (nudge nudge wink wink)
Trust me on this--it's no coincidence that Mary Magdalene was the first person who encountered Jesus after he rolled back the stone and emerged from the tomb of Winter in all his risen Glory!
Easter has been around a lot longer than Jesus. The traditions of bunnies and eggs are much older and more visceral than that of the Cross.
And I feel ten years older than the lot of them.
In a couple of months, I will be 60. It has been so long since I've indulged in the pleasures of the flesh that I'm pretty sure I have forgotten how, and fairly certain that I don't want to be reminded.
So, just pass me a Cadbury's Egg, and we'll call it a day.