I realize if I were a true believer in the boundlessness of your magical abilities, I would be asking you for food for the hungry, jobs for the unemployed, and a safe haven for the abused. I would be asking you for a lasting world peace, a cure for killer diseases, and the continued health and well-being of my children. I would go to bed Christmas Eve knowing that overnight the world would be magically transformed into a perfect, zip-a-dee-doo-dah place, and I would wake up smiling Christmas morning, knowing that I had played a tiny part in that transformation (simply because I had wished for it).
But even though you’re my favorite “jolly old fat man,” I’m just not sure you have the power to make all those things happen. So, to be safe, I’ll continue to address those requests to a Higher Authority and trouble you instead with a few of my more frivolous desires.
To justify my requests, I should probably point out that I have been pretty good this year (on a scale of 1-10, I’d give myself a 6–which is above average–and how much more can you realistically expect from a pre-menopausal woman who is STRESSED OUT ALL THE TIME)? I haven’t yelled, I haven’t cursed (except under my breath, which I don’t think should count), I haven’t kicked any small animals, and I haven’t been caught exceeding the speed limit. I have tried to be on my best behavior this year, and that should count for something, shouldn’t it?
First of all, I would gladly tickle your fat little belly if you could find new homes for my five outside cats. Surely you know of some deserving, good little girls and boys who want a cat to cuddle; mine would make “purrfect” pets for them! And if no homes are to be found for my furry friends, you could always “gently” toss them from your sleigh somewhere over China (don’t worry–they’ll land on their feet, and if they eventually end up as kung pao kitty, then they will have nobly sacrificed their lives in the fight against world hunger).
There will be extra sugar cookies and milk (or another beverage of your choosing) if you can supply me with a year’s worth of sugar-free, fat-free, guilt-free chocolates that taste just as decadent and delicious as the real thing (my mouth is watering at the very thought!). And for a week-long Bahamas vacation during the dreadful depths of January, I might even meet you under the mistletoe!
Santa, dear, I would also really appreciate a personal trainer to whip me into shape (and I don’t mean round! And just to be clear, I don’t mean “whip” in a literal sense, either!). I’m not looking for a drill sergeant who will yell and scream and tell me how pathetic I am–that kind of “tough love” will only tick me off and force me to expend too much of my limited energy devising evil plots of revenge. No, I would much prefer someone who will gently lead me, softly encourage me and then generously reward me for my minimal efforts (and if my trainer happens to be young and incredibly gorgeous, then I’m okay with that, too).
Speaking of incredibly gorgeous, if I’m going to work that hard on getting into better shape, you might also drop Curtis Stone down my chimney to serve as my personal chef for the next few months. Having cutie-pie Curtis cooking in my kitchen would definitely jingle my bells and provide for a very holly, jolly Christmas (oh, by golly!).
And Santa Baby, I know you spend most of your year in a frozen, frigid tundra–maybe you’ve acclimated to those temperatures, maybe you have enough extra padding to keep you warm, maybe you’ll think I’m a wimpy whiner for complaining–but that demon Jack Frost is nipping at my nose, and I’m FREEZING down here! Could you possibly bring me some silk long underwear, a soft and toasty layer I can wear under all my other layers to warm up these brittle old bones? (I’ll mail you cookies every month for that one!)
My last request isn’t for me, Santa, but for the man snoring down the hall. Could you possibly get me the perfect present for my husband–something he might actually use and appreciate, something he might actually take out of the box this time? (Good luck with that.) If you’re stumped too, then I’ll settle for a muzzle and some ear plugs.
This is all I want for Christmas, Santa. If you think I’m being just a little too greedy (or if you think I’ve been just a little too naughty), then feel free to whittle down my list–heck, I’ll be rockin’ around my Christmas tree if even one of my wishes is granted (especially that Bahamas vacation–hint, hint, wink, wink).
Safe travels you sweet old man, and Merry Christmas!