The season of sheer panic, that is.
Yes, it is the Season of Giving and it is is giving me (and possibly you) nothing but headaches.
I have Santa envy. I no longer want to play Santa. I want to be Santa. He gets to loll about all year at the North Pole with zero distractions, overseeing an army of elves who do all the work. By the holiday season, all he has to do is make a list and check it twice. That’s do-able! And you know what else? He can wear the same outfit to every single Christmas party and be praised for it. Best of all, he can put a few pounds on every year and get cheered for it. Nobody even thinks of gifting him a Peloton. (You know the backstory, right?)
About those elves. I know it’s real because one of them came to visit us on Christmas Day last year.
He handed out candy canes and told everyone that they were on the “Nice List” and you know what? I think they were much more excited about that than how many packages were under the tree. This leads me to think about serious things. Deep philosophical things. Like: Could I convince the CE to wear that Elf costume?
My Christmas journey began, as all grief does, with denial. Then there was stunned shock and now I’ve moved on to the aforementioned panic. In the coming week I suspect there will be bargaining and then, hopefully, acceptance. I am prepared to surrender to whatever happens with that three-layer-jello mold this year. Maybe we’ll have a Christmas miracle.
In the meantime, though, if Santa could just loan me that list of his, I’d be ever so grateful.