Dear Santa,
I’m writing to inform you that you can skip over my house this year. It’s not that I don’t believe in you, or that I have anything against toy-making elves or airborne, cloven-hooved creatures. It’s not a comment on your cookie belly, or the nose that makes you look like you visit the liquor cabinet at every stop. It’s really nothing personal at all.
A few days ago, it was decided that we wouldn’t do stockings this year. My poor mother, a very generous soul, has spent more than thirty years running around like a wind up toy on crack, trying to find enough cute little things to appease all of us, and she’s pooped. I don’t blame her. I also heard that someone had been trampled to death by shoppers in a fit of holiday-induced mayhem. And then I heard about people shooting each other at a toy store.
I think we’re all pooped. We’re all pooped from tearing all over town to find gifts that will ultimately get shelved in other people’s closets. We’re pooped from making seven kinds of cookies and three kinds of potatoes and ten batches of eggnog. We’re pooped from untangling lights and screaming carols and walking around with holly-jolly fake smiles on our faces. It’s cold outside, and we’re all a little low on cash, and I think we all just need to sit still and have a nap.
So this year, Santa, I’m doing research. I’m looking through travel guides to find somewhere that people don’t turn into angry apes in red and green toques, and get drunk at office parties. I’m looking for a place where people don’t hate themselves for gaining five pounds here and there, and they don’t inflict lead fruitcake on each other. I’m going to spend a little while there, figuring out the true meaning of “peace on earth” and “silent night”. If you’d like to join me, you’re welcome to. I’ll keep a seat warm for you, and I’ll put on some hot chocolate. You don’t even need to bring presents.
Hugs to Mrs. Clause,
Amy
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