Let’s just say you are lucky enough to get on my Santa list. You’re nice. You take your shoes off when you visit. You always and every single time refill my ice cube tray after making Manhattans. You pick the lint ever so gently from my black sweater. You don’t give a shit about much I do, not a denunciatory bone in your jaw.
And you’re naughty. Yes. When you come, you come bearing a bottle. On special occasions, two. And you bring Russian chocolates. Dark. Playful. You have a tattoo that no one knows about. To you, food is in the same lane as sex. You laugh loudly when you hold grapefruits, exclaiming, “Pamplemousse, pamplemousse!” You whisper four letter words and God in the same sentence in the dark. Naughty. Nice. You’re on my list.
I like you around. I love you. So I buy you gifts on Jesus’ birthday to make you happy. But only sort of. Because, how can I know whether a box of duck slippers will fill you with joy? Ot that a gift certificate to Panera will bring it? How about a tire rotation gift card, my muffin? I’m never sure.
And I really want to believe you when you tilt your head and say, “Wow, thank you so much honey crunch. Red? How did you know?” But I can’t even. Not since I heard on NPR that the perjury rate soars on December 25th.
So it’s okay if you lie, my cupcake, so long as it fills me with joy. Me. So when you say softly, “You really didn’t have to.” I say, “But darling, I did.” I must. I must grab my list, slip my credit card into my pocket, put on my fuzzy red hat, strap up my reindeer and head down Main to bond with the other self interested Santas. For joy.
(c) 2022 Samuel Saint Thomas
