Four Ways From Sunday: Response: And To All A Good Lie

Response: And To All A Good Lie

Sorry Queen for the belated response. I'm still shaking off St. Fiacre’s slanderous attacks on my holiday hit writing potential. And I'm not sure, but I think he said I had cholera. Oh well. I know where he lives. I think.

But to answer your question, yes, I absolutely believe in the power of Santa Claus. There is undeniably something magical about Christmas that tricks you into ignoring your better judgment. Does egg nog actually taste good? Should we feel comfortable removing a beautiful Douglas fir from its natural habitat only to watch it wither and die for our own sick amusement? Must we spend three months pay buying a gift for our second cousins’ best friends’ girlfriends’ dog? Strangely, I find myself answering in the affirmative to all of these questions. Kris Kringle is no different. He certainly deserves a place at the Christmas table of falsehoods too.

Of course, I am a little reticent to offer my opinions on broaching this subject with pre-teens, not being a parent myself (unless you count a couple of shoeboxes buried in the backyard). However, I've tried to put myself in your respective shoes, and I have to admit it would not be easy. I had a hard enough time trying to tell my 8 year old cousin that Matthew McConaughey wasn’t really the Sexiest Man Alive. But if ever a lie needed to be told, I think it’s this one. And really, the bigger the better. But like all good things, it must come to an end. Well, almost anyways.

All I really have to go on is my own experience with the “grand illusion.” Let’s go back, if you will, to November of 1990. It was a lovely autumn day, the birds singing a joyous chorus, and the air filled with the kind of optimism only a naïve 10 year old can attest to. My father had just taken me to the mall to buy a birthday present for my mother. There, in the middle of a lovely chicken teriyaki and Shirley Temple power lunch at Garfield’s family restaurant, my father dropped the big one.

Dad: Son, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but there's no such thing as Santa.
Me: Whhaaaaaa….

He might as well have said this:

Dad: Son, your mother and I have been talking and we just can’t stand looking at that innocent smile of yours anymore. It’s high time you start thinking about mortgage payments, peptic ulcers, and student loans. You know? Stuff that really matters. So give us your youth and I’ll let you pick out a new GI Joe.

His timing couldn’t have been worse. I had just gone through the arduous process of re-convincing myself that Santa Claus did in fact exist. Evidence to the contrary was steadily mounting. One time I even saw my father making faux reindeer tracks in the snow with the handle of a Louisville Slugger. I chose to ignore obvious signs like these. However, I could not ignore my neighbor Michael, who had been relentless in torturing me for the blind faith I had expressed in Santa. Inevitably, when we crossed paths, he would shout in front our fellow neighborhood cohorts, “Bunky believes in the tooth fairy!!!! Bunky believes in the Easter bunny!!!!” This would irritate the hell out of me. But I chose the high road. Little did I know I was walking into a trap.

It's weird but I still remember wanting to throw up when I was given the bad news. I cried a little bit, although surprisingly less than when I got the “sex talk.” Then it was all over. It hurt. It still hurts. But it's that good kind of hurt. Or as the Cougar would say, “It hurts so good.” And what I mean is, it felt great not to have to worry anymore. Trying to believe in Santa Claus any longer would have required an extraordinary amount of willpower, the kind of willpower I just didn’t possess anymore. Now that St. Nick had been unmasked, a new dawn of reasoning opened up before my very eyes. In essence, it was the beginning of me seeing things for what they are. It was the genesis of my cynic nature.

As for my neighbor Michael, let’s just say he’s now the resident Santa Claus at Penn Square Mall.

Okay, that’s not true. He’s a successful young doctor with a big house and a nice car. There really is no poetic justice in his shabby treatment of me.

Merry Christmas to you Adjective Queen and Happy Yak Shaving Day to you St. Fiacre.

posted by A Contemporary Bunkshooter @ 4:06 PM,