The Column: It's the perfect time of year for the Christmas spirit

Oh, no. Christmas.

We were walking around the Coastland Center mall in severely upscale Naples, Florida, happy to be out of the 86-degree heat.

It was early November. My wife, Wink, and I were in town for a family gathering. Wink had just condemned the old linen sport jacket I secretly stuffed into the valise as the menswear equivalent of toxic waste.

We would be going to the country club — our one and only wealthy relative was the weekend host — and I would be required to look at least marginally acceptable, she insisted.

Now in its 30th year of service, the jacket evidently put even that modest goal in doubt.

“Threads hanging off the sleeves. Stains you couldn’t budge with muriatic acid. Droopy elbows. Frayed collar. No way.”

“It’s my favorite, and besides, you’re overstating the case.”

Debates of this sort never last long. Soon, we departed for the mall.

Luck was on my side. Wink spotted a rack where sport jackets had been reduced 75 percent. A single 41 Regular remained.

The worst was over. I had a new jacket that Wink said gave us a decent chance of getting past club security without being frisked. We could stop shopping — now! — and maybe drop off for margaritas at the Mexican joint next to the motel.

The mall was huge, however, and we began wandering aimlessly until pulling up at a major pedestrian intersection.

“No,” I said. “This can’t be. It is Nov. 2 and that appears to be a Christmas tree.”

“And those look a lot like reindeer,” said Wink, pointing to a small herd of artificial animals.

Elsewhere, we saw that one of the stores had moved huge boxes of toys into sight. A peppy, disco-lite version of “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” ended all speculation. This was not the work of a single overzealous marketing executive. This was policy. The holidays were here.

Complaining does no good. Whatever its more serious meaning, Christmas is a commercial enterprise and retailers have to make their numbers. The bottom line exerts its own potent imperative: Forget the calendar. Start spending.

And, of course, in this case, there was the Florida factor. Spotting Christmas decorations on Long Island two days after Halloween would be unsettling enough. But Florida — with all its sunshine and orange groves and alligators lounging on golf courses — just doesn’t seem like Santaland.

I speak from experience.

One of my first jobs as a newspaper reporter was at the Miami Herald. We had three little kids — a fourth was in the future — and during our first and only December in the Sunshine State took them to a local shopping center for what was billed as a visit from St. Nick. The twerps were excited when Santa appeared, but Wink and I gasped.

“He’s in shorts,” Wink whispered.

“And the Christmas tree in his sled is a palm.”

“And the sled looks like it’s sort of a rocket ship.”

“No Dancer, Prancer, Comet or Vixen.”

“No Rudolph.”

The kids squealed and clapped. But their parents knew best. Before the next Christmas, we left Florida and were back in New York. When it snowed, we cheered.

So, we brought some cultural baggage to Coastland Center, no question.

But, to tell the truth, I’ve been thinking. What difference does it make, really, if the first sign of the season comes in Alligator Alley or Suffolk County?

It’s not Florida’s fault.

When you reach a certain age, you may not want anyone rushing the seasons — or anything else. Wow, you find yourself thinking: Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, Valentine’s, St. Pat’s, Cinco de Mayo, National Chocolate Macaroon Day (June 3), and suddenly it’s summer, fall and — yikes! — Christmas again.

Where did the time go? People are always wondering. Wasn’t it just last week that I put the ancient red-and-green tree stand back in the attic? You mean “New Year’s Rockin’ Eve” is coming on any minute — again?

Wink and I got to the Mexican joint in Naples. I managed half a margarita — just enough — and thought of all in life that means the most, including, by the way, my old linen jacket. Sure, it droops and has a few spots, but so do I. We’re both still around, right? Be grateful. Don’t sweat the small stuff. Christmas, already? No problem. Bring it on.