The dread is upon me.It’s that time of year again and there is nothing I can do about. It is the fear that wakes me in a cold sweat; clinching my chest, in a soundless scream. Is it the Jello-bean-fruit casseroles of indeterminable color laid out for the unsuspecting during holiday potlucks? No. Is it sad emptiness of the movable, inflatable creatures in yards across America ? No, but let’s not kid ourselves they have the potential to come alive and kill you. Inflatable Santa knows when you are sleeping and knows when you’re awake, you better watch out …. However it is true fear that haunts me like the ghost of Christmas Past: My Parents Annual Christmas Letter.
Every year when I should be dreaming of sugar plums (which in my head looks like some magical willy woka fruit instead of what google images showed me - seriously a sugar donut? That all you got, in your face pioneers, electricity and better food!) and presents under the Christmas tree now looms the knowledge that soon everyone my parents have ever been in contact with will all get to read about me in paragraph form. From Edith, my Nana’s friend who was actually at the birth of Christ who will have to have the letter read to her by the nursing home staff, to Ed the man we once met, for no more than 24 hours ,while on a family hiking excursion, they all get an update on the family. FYIPS, Ed while your stories about rock formations in no way made the trip longer, you have now earned a coveted spot on the Family Christmas letter list, for this is the season of Peace, Love and apparently Sharing.
“Why is this a problem?” you ask. No editing rights. Every one from husbands, to southern belles know that is it not what you say but how you say it. Instead of saying you smell like dead sunk, southern belles know that saying “Sugar, you smell just like my old pappy use to smell, course he useto pour his cologne on something fierce, however you do reminder me of him, bless your heart.” And husbands know to respond to “Do these pants make me look fat?” by either diversion or defection. Diversion: “Did I tell you that I heard Tom down the street is having an affair with his son’s teacher?” Deflection: “Baby I’ll always think you look pretty but I got to say your back dress is my favorite, you look gooooood.” My dad worked for the government and my mother was a teacher so you can’t tell me they didn’t learn this! But no, the one time I ask them to stretch the truth a bit, they are looking at me like I am speaking Gaelic Piglatin! In last year's Christmas letter, I was such a looser they had to write about this year's plans. The year before that, in hopes to make my brother’s bio and my paragraph have an equal word count they started listing my favorite things. “Hayden is very happy to be employed, our family still lives in hope that one day one of her 3 degrees will be useful, she likes the color green, smoothies, reading and is still currently still single, for dowry info please go to the web site listed above and please note the sliding scale; willing to negotiate for republicans, small business owners, or fertile males.”
What is worse is I don’t have any say in the pictures and this is a huge problem, literally. Zaftig, Botticellian, not-petite-in-any-way is just some of the words that can describe my arse. Yet every year it is figured in the Christmas year letter like a member of the family. 2007, our the family hiking the grand canyon, my brother the iron man in front, followed by me, then my father the Japanese tourist taking shots and so what started out as a grand, grand canyon shot ended with a panoramic view up the canyon with my ass as the focal point. 2008, it was the picture our family decorating the tree- guess who was bend over and had her back to the camera cause she was decorating the tree! 2009, group shot where the shortest family was not put in front but placed off to the side and turned sideways. Jesus wept, people!
So as the metaphorical midnight approaches and I wait for the visitation from the sprits of Christmas, via letter form, I can only hope to make it the end when Tiny Tim proclaims "God Bless us all."
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