Despertar

dear santa

Dear Santa,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. It's been a long time since I've bothered writing; you stopped bringing me everything I wanted right around the time I started wanting things that weren't things. I got the leather boots, last year, but where was my validation of self and purpose, my late-night moment of perfect clarity? Where was my disinterested maturity all those times Marcus called and wrecked my whole day? Where was Justin's heart, neatly packaged and delivered, with embellishments, to my front door? My perfect grades? My fully repaired relationship with my dad?

Anyway, my faith is shaken, but the older I get, the fewer people I feel comfortable asking for the things I want. You have become a last resort. How does that feel? Without further ado, please bring me:

1. ...some compassion in these times of economic crisis. I know the world is freaking out, and with good reason: All my friends who aren't in grad school or Teach for America are in dire straits, career-wise, and I do feel badly about this. I do understand that Kittiara is in good company, so desperate for a job she'd consider relocating to the coldest place on Earth. I also understand that, by comparison, I am incredibly well-positioned, guaranteed a job next summer with a ninety-percent chance of a full-time offer after graduation. Not many people can boast relatively long-term job security these days, with major auto companies and small retailers alike dying out.

The problem I keep running into, Santa, is that few people seem to understand how constraining that feels. Having thrown all my eggs into this basket, I don't really have any choice but to see it through to its conclusion, when, in some ways, maybe I'd even prefer the challenge of having to start from scratch. I haven't ever wanted to be poor, or to have to struggle, and clearly on paper my situation is preferable to, say, someone attempting to enter the workforce straight out of high school right now.

But only a total asshole would be anything but apologetic for all that when her friends, family and neighbors are complaining about not being able to buy plane tickets for Thanksgiving. So, please make me thankful for having my future fully mapped out for me, and for the fact that I won't be able to procreate responsibly for about six years.

2. ...love. I desperately want to buy someone a gorgeous silk pocket square, this year, and while I'd be perfectly happy to do so for Justin, I'm afraid he'd take the aforementioned position of feeling awkward instead of appreciative. I don't want him to feel indebted, or imposed on, because I wanted to give him a gift. That's so stupid.

3. ...a Magic Bullet. I know you've seen the ads, Santa. It can make guacamole, blueberry muffin batter, homemade salsa, marinara sauce, omelet mix, et cetera, and it only costs ninety-nine ninety-five. But if you can't manage that one, my mom has already volunteered to do the honors.

Thanks, and I hope you and I are on better terms at this time next year.

Yours,
Shannon