(No, don’t ask me to call you Santa. We’ve talked about this.)
It’s that time of the year.
Jingle bells, reindeers, carols, decorated trees and all that jazz.
For eleven months you sit on our couch not moving a finger. The cobwebs remain untouched, the snow on our driveway stays unploughed. Don’t even let me get started on the shed.
Then come December and you just flip around like a pancake on a buttered skillet.
Don’t get me wrong. I get it. I really do.
I know how happy this job makes you but is it wrong to pay attention to the house, ourhouse, once in a while?
When I married you, you said you were the luckiest man in the world and that you would do anything to keep me happy. It’s been a few years now, Nick, and those promises you made are wearing out faster than you can say ho ho ho.
Let’s start with the travel bit. Is it really necessary to physically go to every house to deliver presents? Why can’t you hire an assistant? Or better why not ship it online? Amazon delivers to Narnia, for God’s sake!
And those poor reindeer.
You are lucky the PETA people haven’t pounced on you yet. Never seen a case of animal cruelty as severe as this.
When I confront you, you make counter-arguments, like “You should be thankful I am your husband, otherwise who would give presents to your horrible sisters?” or something of that sort.
But you should know Nick, this isn’t personal.
Don’t think I haven’t noticed how that pretty cashier at the bank seems to get the best presents every year.
Anyway, coming back to why I wrote this letter.
For the whole of December, you are treated like a rock star of sorts. No doubt you are amazing, an entrepreneur of unimaginable magnitude, but what about the following eleven months where I am left to do everything for you?
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Surely I deserve some credit. I keep your secrets safe. Lord knows how much trouble you’d be in if the taxman came snooping to our backyard. Not to mention, the suspicious way you source presents for 7.5 billion people getting nothing but stale mince pies and carrots in return.
Here’s what infuriates me.
When you come back exhausted from your travels, filthy from all the chimneys you slid through, you are never too tired to tell me all about the snotty-nosed kids who almost caught you, but you never ask about me.
Or my work.
Now don’t scoff like you always do. Volunteering at the town’s lost and found department is no less important than flying off across the world to distribute presents. You should see the look on the mom’s face when I hand her the sipper her child lost in the park.
And considering the number of atrocities you commit in the name of good, one of us better be giving back to the community to even it out.
I know Nick, you think you are some sort of a superhero, but it’s time you got your life in order.
Agreed, people are dumb this time of year. They won’t accept a leader voted by the majority but they have no qualms letting you be the sole judge of who makes the nice or naughty lists.
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It won’t always be this way. So, here’s what I suggest.
Come back this year and let’s start over.
Let’s do the candlelight dinners and moonlit walks. Tell me how much you appreciate me and my work and wish you could do it too. Just like those good old days.
Most importantly, whisper those three magical words in my ears.
“Here’s your Versace.”
PS: My sisters, the ones you call horrible, prefer Prada.