(Note: For heightened suspense, read this while listening to the Imperial March.)
IT’S CHRISTMAS EVE AND I’M HOLED UP IN MY ROOM avoiding my father, who will inevitably approach me with cash and a needy plea to buy my mother’s Christmas gift. It happens every year like clockwork — the afternoon of the Eve, Dan’s Doom will play as my father corners me in some fateful cranny, followed by the heavy breathing, the glances over his shoulders, the slow, painful whispers, [breathing] “Here…go… find…your mom…something,” [more breathing] and concluded with the transfer of a cash wad from patriarch to his last hope: me.
My mother gave birth to me nearly 21 years ago, and I’ve been frolicking through life with her ever since. But not one of my 21 years have I spent being married to her, had children with her, been her Romeo or claimed the role of minivan commander in chief. I merely came from her womb, a situation that lends me no special mastery over 27+ years of matrimony — just…really curly hair and short stature.
(There is a sudden pause, and my father walks into my room, loudly snacking on a handful of Christmas cookies. A small bead of sweat lingers near my brow, as I fear the inevitable.)
“I got…some…stuff…I need you to…wrap.”
(He pulls items from several bags, displaying the bevy of goods before me. He drops his Christmas cookie on the floor, and the dog runs for it.)
“SHOOT.”
The inevitable has been overcome, I can come out of hiding now!
Merry Christmas Eve, All!
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