Ok. I'm 46 years old and tomorrow, I'm going to the mall. It's time to have it out with Santa, and that's where he can be found. Or so I've heard. Once upon a time, we used to write letters back and forth, he and I. But those days are gone. I'm sure he has email, but he probably has an elf delegated to vet his inbox. I want to talk to the man.
The last time I sat on Santa's lap was about 1990. We were at a Christmas party, and there he was, and I plopped myself down and tried to explain to him about how much I needed a Porsche. To be specific, a Carrera. The reason I want a Carrera is much harder to explain.
They're pretty, in a way that only really, truly hot cars can be pretty. They have sleek, muted lines, they hug the road and look great in the parking lot. You can take them to an auto cross meet and have people envy you. They have more horsepower than I could ever use. They purr when you start up the motor, and you can drive them cleanly through the worst of traffic. You can shift the gears and feel like you own the world.
Now, I know Carreras don't grow on trees, so I tried to be patient. I waited. I wrote, I tried to call. But frankly, it's now fourteen years later and there is still no Porsche under my Christmas tree. While I'd like to believe that this will be the year that Santa will come through, I have my doubts.
I realize that he is busy and this is a tall order. Something along the lines of a pony. But I have a garage. And a live-in mechanic. I can afford parts. I think it's time. Nobody would appreciate a Porsche as much as I would. I promise. I would wash it, oh, say, all the time. I would promise not to gloat too much when I took it out to do the weekly shopping. And I would never wave it in my neighbor's face. (Ok, maybe just a little, but not too much.)
Theoretically, it is just possible that I may have slipped off the "nice" list a time or two in the last fourteen years. I really do try to be nice most of the time, but there are moments when nice just isn't called for. Nothing else will do but to just let loose and be naughty. So maybe that's the problem. But I play the odds. If I'm nice 90% of the time, it seems like Santa would cut me some slack at some point. How many people are 90% nice?
And how does he know how nice I am, really? Back in the day, you could keep a list. But nowadays, with all the firewalls, and home security, and protecting yourself from identity theft, maybe I fell off his radar. Maybe, just maybe, based on a few silly incidents (like me going to jail or something), he thinks I'm really naughty.
That's why I need to go see him. We need a face to face. I could remind him of our history. I could remind him of all the times I took my kids to see him. How I dutifully washed their faces and combed their hair and stood in line for hours for just a moment of his time.
I could recall the letters that I wrote as a child, when I wanted a pony. (Ok, Santa, I got the pony, is there some rule that says I can't also get a Porsche?)
I'm pretty sure I remember at least one year when I asked Santa to give food to the hungry. And there was probably something in there about world peace and an end to global warming and nuclear proliferation.
If I wasn't a really nice person, I could probably blackmail Santa. I mean, all those elves. Why do they put up with it? What kind of benefits could they possibly have other than joy to the world? What's in it for them? They slave away for what? Do any of them have lives? Does anyone care about the elves? Are they building any Porsches? Oops.
Tomorrow is the day when I confront Santa. I'm going to ask him why I haven't gotten my Porsche. I'm not entirely sure I want to hear the answer, but I have a $100/hour shrink that I can fall back on if it doesn't fall my way.
And, if he still thinks I'm not deserving of a Porsche, maybe he'd be willing to help out with my insurance premiums. You never know. It can't hurt to ask. And maybe, just maybe, when I wake up on Christmas morning, I'll have a Porsche in my driveway.
Or a puppy. I'd settle for a puppy. Ooh, maybe I should ask for a puppy&maybe Santa thinks I can't handle a Porsche. Ok. Now I want a puppy. I'll take a Porsche next year. Or a kitten. I could really use a kitten... or a grandchild...
Santa, we've got a lot to talk about.
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