Writer's Workshop: Dear Santa

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Dear Santa,

Dude. This is totally a break-up letter. We’re through. You’ve had 43 years to get it right. But year after year… W.R.O.N.G. I know you’re busy making your list and checking it twice and all, yadda yadda. I know you have all those pesky kids to see to first. What.Ever. Even when I was a kid… you got it all wrong.

Remember the year I asked for that cool, sleek 10-speed? I wanted a boy’s bike, I know, but there’s no hard and fast rule about that, is there? I wanted it to be blue and white, like my brother’s. Remember? I was very specific. Remember what I got? A girl’s bike. A yellow girl’s bike. A very bright yellow girl’s bike. Do you know what it’s like to spend your tween years riding a banana with wheels? It’s not cool, Santa. Not cool at all. And yes, I know my mom liked it better than the blue and white boy’s bike. And yes, I know she’s a scary little tyrant. But you’re Santa, for Christ’s sake. The Big Guy. You could’ve overruled her. You should've overruled her. Just like you should’ve done the time I got the bright green duck shoes instead of the nice L.L. Bean navy blue ones I asked for (you know, so I wouldn’t stand out from all the preppy princesses in my high school like Kermit the Friggin’ Frog). She liked the green ones better, too… I know. The power of VETO, Santa. You had it. You didn’t use it. Dude. Not cool.

But I forgave you for the bike. And the duck shoes. And all the other things that were similar but not quite what I (very) specifically asked for every year. But still… you failed. Remember the year I didn’t ask for anything except for my ear infection to go away so I could fly pain-free? Yes, I know you did it. And I appreciate it. But I totally didn’t ask for the yeast infection I got in its place. Do you have any idea what it’s like to have to explain to a hard-of-hearing pharmacist in another country, who doesn’t have the same regard for patient privacy as the pharmacists here, exactly what a yeast infection is? Do you know how pleasant it is to hear him holler all the way across the (very crowded) store for the clerk to bring something for vaginal itching? Well, I can tell you from experience, Santa. It’s not pleasant. Not pleasant at all.

But even if I could overlook the yellow bike and green shoes and yeast infection incidents, I can’t forget or forgive the husband incident. I know it was a tall order. I know. But Santa… Rob? Really? Really, Santa?! Rob? He was seriously the best you could do? What? You didn’t have a gimpy elf with a wall-eye and a flatulence problem lying around somewhere? Rob?! So much for the friggin’ magic of Christmas, eh? I guess I didn’t deserve my miracle on 34th Street (or Oakhurst Lane… whatever).

Do you hate me? What did I do? I was a good girl, wasn’t I? OK, yeah, I remember the Rhonda Incident, but I didn’t ask for anything that year either, did I? Or the year of the Big Lie. But I was good most of the time. I left you cookies and milk… chocolate milk, even. I left carrots and oats for the reindeer. I was never greedy. I wrote my letters in my best penmanship and checked the grammar and spelling twice. But still… you let me down. Over and over. So I’m ending our relationship. Severing ties. We’re done, Fat Boy. Kaput. Finis. Shot. Go peddle your ho ho ho's to some other schmuck. Have a nice life. Have a nice banana-riding-green-shoe-wearing-yeast-infection-scratching-Rob-marrying life. You’re off my Christmas card list, Dude. Permanently.

Love Always,

Diane