‘Tis the season that Mariah Carey is welcomed into my house for the one month out of an entire year that I can stand her. The season where I can watch A Christmas Story at 7 am, noon, 4 pm and midnight, and will refer to everything breakable as fra-geel-ay. The season where the amount of time it takes me to delete all of my junk emails from Borders, Express, Aerie, Sephora, Gap, Limited, Aveda, etc. has enlarged from 3 minutes a day to 15. The season where Come On Charlie, my self-named and favorite cashier at Target, will no longer carry on a conversation with me per usual in the event that it shaves milliseconds off his steadily systematic printing of gift receipts. And a Merry Christmas season to you, too.
And, of course, this season is the time of year where I spend every free minute running ideas through my mind in the hopes of generating somewhat of a decent Christmas list. Which is really damn hard these days. I remember back when I was young; I could write a list upon hearing only the whisper of a request. And it would be comprehensive. Detailed. Anticipated for months even before any measurable snowfall. Rattled off effortlessly. On a park bench. In the middle of summer. I wish that this was a “for example.” (Seriously. My mom’s side drew names for gift exchanges at the annual family vacation. At the resort on the lake. Which was always the first week of August, people.) And I didn’t feel bad about being this demanding because I didn’t know better. As you, can see from above, it was even, in fact, encouraged. Those, my friends, were the good old days. And they have been flushed down the drain.
See, now I have the ability to buy things I want without almost a second thought. And I am extremely grateful for that ability, don’t get me wrong. Having the autonomy to buy “stuff,” whether it be actual physical things or “things” better described as experiences, is one of the absolute joys of being an employed, single, childless, and generally as free to roamabouttheworldasIdamnwellplease late 20-something. And I wouldn’t change this for anything.
But it makes creating a Christmas list a nightmare. If I were to create a list of my current whims and desires with the spirit and conviction I had in the mid 1980’s, I would be asking Santa for a home to call my own, a new job, a new(er) car, the ability to comfortably zip up my favorite jeans from high school, a housekeeper keen on folding laundry to my admittedly precise specifications, and an all expenses paid European backpacking extravaganza. Santa delivers any of that, and I’ll be contacting little Veronica myself.
But this is all a wee bit above the rigid $50-limit-everything-in-one-box rule at the family gift exchange. So, as a result, I have drafted a few less exciting ideas that are always appreciated upon opening. Pajamas. (Love them.) Nice smelling candles. (To calm any desire to murder the hippie. ) GIGANTOR Crate & Barrel coffee mugs. (To prolong the long, dark days of winter ahead.) I tried my best, and these are some of the ideas I came up with. But really, all this hard work just makes me miss the spirit of Christmas Past. The Christmas that only children can know.
It makes me nostalgic for when I was young; when I was easily excited about all the things that involved limitless imagination and physical participation more than bells and whistles and remaining battery life. So no more grasping at straws for ideas. Well, at least not for today. I want to just relieve the things that I remember from back then. So move over Ipads, smart phones and Kindles. It’s time to return to the great toys of the 80’s. Below are a few of my personal favorites, which I would like to thank for playing their part in the fond memories of my childhood. Welcome back, and know that you are missed.