The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Dear Santa...

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Dear Santa,

We've actually met a few times. The mall once or twice, at the end of that parade when I was seven, and let's not forget the year my mother had you come to my house on a snowmobile with a sleigh tethered to the back of it. What a thrill that was, and even though I was a little annoyed that you'd left the reindeer to fend for themselves during that blustery, winter eve, I couldn't help but be awed by you and the silky sheen of your crooked beard. I don't expect you to remember much about me, I mean, I was small then and I was too afraid of you to say much, but I'm older now and I've been wondering about you lately. You must be 'getting up there', so to speak. I understand you're meant to be a magical entity of sorts, and frankly, I've enjoyed this about you because it meant I could invest in worshipping you. That said, you've had me a little concerned of late. I have been given to wondering if you're ailing, perhaps fading into the quicksand of dementia or if you've just decided you've had enough of us ingrates always coming at you with our wants and promises of good behaviour when clearly you know what we're all about and that none of us are as perfect as we'd have you to believe.

So, to be blunt, you used to be better at your job, or so it seemed. Snow used to look like pixie dust when you were at the top of your game, sparkling under a winter-crisp demi-lune. The air had laughter in it, the tinkle of distant bells and people used to smile at one another like they were drunk on the fumes of a peaceful, violet night. Houses smelled like popped corn, pine needles, mulling cider and the whiskeyed breath of sloppy relatives. You could hear each snowflake kiss the others as they would flutter down with balletic grace, and it was hypnotic, Santa, it really was. A candy cane was a delicacy, egg nog looked tempting even if the concept of it is absolutely disgusting, and frankly, fruit cake was delicious when fanned in slices on a doilied paper plate. Oh, the memories are sweet, old man, and I'm grateful for them because lately things aren't quite so idyllic, and I'm blaming you a little.

First of all, I'm not so on board with the whole 'Christmas is just for kids' philosophy. I could do with seeing an adult or two benefit from your generosity. Frankly, happy adults make for happy children, so if you have the power to deliver toys all over the world in one evening, surely you can come up with some decent ideas as to how to spread the joy a little further. See, Santa, I'm seeing your gift distribution as a little discriminatory. You seem to give more to the kids who already have too much, and you gloss over the ones who don't. That makes no sense, Santa, so I'm wondering if you might be a Conservative in a red velvet suit. This would displease me greatly. Also, I have known more than one evil little kid who has received oodles of presents, so it's obvious to me that you're not only playing favourites, but you're also a little bit stupid. Remember that kid who used to shoot birds with his pellet gun before ripping them apart to see what was inside? What the hell was that race car set all about? Why did the fat girl who terrorized my classmates get two Cabbage Patch Dolls? Was she supposed to eat them?

Oh, and what the hell happened to the elves? Did they try to unionize or something so you closed up the factory? Everything is made in China now! Not only is that confusing given that you're supposed to have your headquarters somewhere else, but these new elves are effing up royally. All the toys fall apart, and the ones that don't have the potential to kill us with all the lead and melamine in them. Oh, and ever try to get one of those lovely concoctions out of the box? It takes a Master's degree and a tool set, not to mention that you need the same things to assemble the stuff. Also, I find the marketing a little distasteful. Do you really need all the advertising time? Do you think that kids need the suggestions? When I was small, I was okay with the odd commercial or the flyer in the local paper, but now it's an industry! Somehow, despite what we've been told that you and your 'elves' make all the toys and hand them out to good boys and girls, we keep hearing about how retailers make nearly fifty per cent of their profit for the year two and a half short months. How does that work? What's with the lack of productivity on your end? How do other people make money off of you and you don't stand up and say no? Did you move from the North Pole into Sam Walton's house? Wait, Santa, are you Sam Walton? So what if they say he's dead. You're magic, after all, you masterful bastard.

But no, I don't believe that, because you're supposed to be older than that. Word is, you are close personal friends with God. How else could one explain the ability to stop the world for one night, or the flying reindeer, or the way you somehow come down chimneys into roaring fireplaces without singeing that nifty ensemble of yours. Does the Big Guy know how lazy you've become? Wait, he's all-knowing, so of course he does. Maybe you're just taking advantage of the fact that he's busy with other things, like the economic problems that are exploding everywhere, famine, genocide, disease, natural/unnatural disasters and the murder of art and good taste. You're sitting back and letting all these idiots take over your holiday and you aren't putting up much of a fuss from where I sit. Christmas Spirit has been replaced with rampant stress, unrealistic expectations and a sense of inadequacy. I am not down with this. It's like no one gets enough anymore because you've let things get out of hand and they think it means they aren't loved or valued. For some reason, you've given up or you're getting some kind of perverse pleasure in watching it all unfold, and you still want us to believe in you. How is it reasonable to expect our faith when you are relying on nothing but legend and word-of-mouth to get it? Wait, this sounds familiar...

I really hope you're not dead, Santa. All my ranting would be kind of distasteful if this were to be the case, because it would mean we all killed you with all of our excess and greed. As you were one of the so-called 'undead', in that you weren't categorically human, I would have to guess that our rabid wants were like a stake through your heart, or an unstoppable exorcism or sorts. I suppose it felt like we didn't appreciate you or need you anymore, Santa, but this is not the case, I can assure you. Sure, you made some mistakes but overall your intentions were good and you made more people smile than I ever have. More than a new bike, more than a million dollars, more than a two-hour orgasm, I need to believe again, Santa. I need to know you're there, that you're still checking your lists, that you still have those crazy elves in a wintry workshop churning out doll after train set after tightly bound book. I need the reindeer and the crumb-filled plates which had been emptied of cookies during my sugar-plum filled sleep. I need to believe in anonymous, mystical goodness because it feels better than believing in nothing at all.

Most of all, I miss that feeling, Santa. I miss that feather-soft armour of the Christmas season, how it deflected all the bad thoughts and soaked the tears up before they fell. I miss the music, and the prayers, and the simplicity of oranges and apples in a stocking. I'm grateful for the inclusion of chocolate, though, please leave that in. I'd be fine with walking amongst legions of other people in malls, or down slush-filled streets if their voices were only heard in song or in happy greeting. I would want to smell bread and pies baking, not the gas fumes of cars idling on chaotic streets or in bursting parking lots. I'm looking for the basics, Santa. There was something good in those, a surge of peace that flooded the bloodstream. There was hope.

If you're not dead, Santa, if you're not ravaged by Alzheimer's or held hostage by disgruntled elves, you need to grow another pair and get back to business. I'm not liking the cynical side of things. It's sticky and wet and not in a good way.