I remember being consumed with the idea of Santa when I was younger. Obsessed with him. I mean, this guy didn’t even really know me… I stopped buying into that ‘good girl’/’bad girl’ threat at the age of four when I stole a classmate’s fruit roll up, lied about it and still got Christmas presents that December. The physical reaction that took place on Christmas mornings for me were like what I only assume dropping Acid in a room full of cash, while simultaneously being cheered on by your closest friends and family would be and just like a drug, it happens in stages.
First? Anticipation. The nights leading up to Xmas day were filled with angst and high hopes and around the 20th, sh*t got real. Sweating, the shakes, scenarios running through my head… I needed it. I needed it to be the 25th. This hit a high point at the end of Christmas Eve dinner when I knew it was really in sight. We got the goods. To describe the night’s of 12/24 between the years of approx. 1992-1999 would basically be similar to a multiple personality, caged animal with a bad case of tourettes breaking out in random laughs, cries and keywords from my Christmas list.. “KABOODLE!!!?!?!??”, “TOMAGATCHI!?!??”, “CASH REGISTER!!!?!?”. I really don’t have any recollection after this, so I can only assume my parents had to step in and slip me some kind of sleep aid and for that, I am eternally grateful.
I wake up, deceived. HOW did this happen? I fell asleep.. impossible. No time for thoughts – C$H$R$I$T$M$A$S!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Later in life, I learned the only way to describe this moment is…
taken from here
The sad reality is that this process, although traumatic, is magic and as we get older, it fades. You learn that not everything you believed in was true (in my case, I found out when my Jewish best friend asked me when I found out that my idol, my beloved, my rockstar, Santa Claus didn’t really exist. I responded confidentently and carefree, “HA, seriously.. I’ve known for ages……… I must be going now”, quickly turned my back and cried the entire way home). But, then you fill the void with the memory of innocence and with appreciation for your parents going through all kinds of trouble to make the day as mind blowing as it was… I mean, my Dad once drove three hours north to meet a woman in a parking lot in the freezing cold to exchange a sold-out-everywhere Furby for more cash than than that loud, needy toy (that doesn’t turn off, by the way) was ever worth. And yes, I still love Christmas. Some part of me reverts back to that selfish, bratty, unappreciative eight year old every year and the spirit of children lives on.
*Reference to drugs was used for humor’s sake. Don’t do drugs. Just love Christmas.
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