It’s two days before Christmas Eve, thirteen degrees below zero, and I burned my hand while making a rookie mistake with our Aeropress coffee maker this morning. Pain is like arousal, it makes you aware of the body part that’s throbbing.
At heart, I am both a “Christmas kid” and a “fat kid”; two traits that can’t be erased by aging or weight loss.
Every Christmas Eve, I’d leave out a plate of Spritz cookies and a tumbler of single malt scotch for Santa. My mom said it was his favorite drink and he’d probably had his fill of milk. The coincidence of my mom and Santa sharing the same favorite drink was lost on me. Years later I’d drink scotch only because I thought I’d drink it slower than vodka; I did not. In my early 20’s, Christmas Eve was black Russians for mom and white Russians for me, because, again. . . fat kid.
Every Christmas morning there’d be a gift of new pajamas on the end of my bed with a note from Mrs. Claus. This tradition started somewhere in my mom’s childhood, but there’s a flavor of feminism in the custom, like the Cult of Mary in Catholicism where the oft forgotten are given a place to be venerated. Mrs. Claus was finally given agency.
I tend toward the domestic power of Mrs. Claus. A friend once told me that it was my tendency toward this domesticity that made men want to stop fucking me. Isn’t it telling the tidbits our brains will determine to remember from friendships that span decades.
One year, Santa visited our home mid-flight on Christmas Eve. I must’ve known he wasn’t the REAL Santa as I seem more entranced with the boy named Hesse on Santa’s other knee.
At a gala in my 30’s, I sat on the knee of a married man. His hand found the outside of my thigh and he exhaled the phrase, “you feel so. . . new.” He’s still married but now sober.
Anyway, back to Santa. The next morning, Santa’s boots were by the door. And just like the scotch, I never put boot and boot together until my mom clued me in years later.
When I was 20, my mom reignited the spark with that Santa and we spent Christmas in North Carolina with him and his son who was attending Penn. I felt illegitimate in that Ivy League light and my behavior showed it. Have you ever put back a six pack of beer while finishing off a pumpkin pie in the glow of a CRT TV and “A Hobo’s Christmas?” I have, and it was simultaneously pitiful and perfect.
Tie me to the banister with holly berry garland and dangle the mistletoe above my head like the carrot that tempts the reindeer.
Christmas, and its spirit, is ineffable but I still believe the dolls come to life, whether you have a dollhouse or not.
ah Ulrich and i recently started using an Aeropress too! and also we just bought a small bottle of scotch for christmas eve, heheh. i have never coupled a six pack with a pumpkin pie but i miss the latter so much, I'm betting i could come close to eating half the next time i see one! hope your burn heals as quickly as possible <3