“Ignorance is bliss,” they say. And I always believe the proverbial “they.” “They” are certainly right here. For instance, if only I was unaware of my general appearance, then maybe I could be jolly. But, no, I’m a shadow of the man I used to be. A shadow of the man I’m supposed to be. Oh woe is me!
I want to cry sometimes, which is ironic on multiple levels.
First of all, I am the image of merry, or at least I was. I’m a busted Kris Kringle, Saint Nicholas, the spirit of joy and giving, the hope of Christmas secularity. But instead of looking like a winter icon as I used to, as I should, I appear more like an autumn logger.
I am aware of these things because I can see my reflection in the back of this compact car, in the rear window, and occasionally the side windows and front window (as I am four-sided). My owner stuck me back here in February of 2007, after spending an illustrious 2006 holiday season gracing a coffee table sandwiched between the Christmas tree and the mistletoe bedecked front door. Those were happier times. But, alas, all good things must come to an end. So to humor her kids, co-workers, and I assume the various observant strangers who point and laugh, I have spent the past four years in a perpetual state of sunburn.
Second, in terms of irony, is the fact that I cover the very thing that I would use to wipe the wet blue eyes that won’t wet. I was made by an elderly woman at an assisted living home as a fundraiser for pet adoptions. I was made with love and care by this patient lady, Ms. Marie, who had bony, brittle fingers, a fact that I warmly recall. If I had not been sold, if she had only kept me, I am sure I would be used to teleport the tissue paper that would ease the seasonal allergies of my dear maker. Instead I was sold to a hard-working woman with precocious kids and spend my time watching the tissues I carry wipe boogies or scabs, blood and mucus, or picking up dead ladybugs that somehow made it into and then failed to make it out of this 1990 Nissan Maxima. In 2008 it was known to me as “the pukemobile” due to an unfortunate series of stomach bugs that plagued my owner’s family (even worse than the poor ladybugs).
So here I sit, terrified of the incoming heat of summer, of what it will do to further discolor my already faded image. What used to be brilliant red and green is now burnt orange and well, a less than brilliant green. At least my balls are still fluffy and white, and my beard has not yellowed… yet. My weathered visage is a constant source of stress for me. It’s really just vanity. I know I shouldn’t complain. It’s unbecoming of my position. Who wants to hear Father Christmas (or Big Papa on the street) bellow and bemoan this life? But, no one can hear me anyway! Let’s face it, I am Santa no longer. All is meaningless under the sun. I have no ho, ho, hope.
Still I’m sorry to be a sullen Santa. I’m depressing even myself. I guess it’s not so bad here. At least I’m not rotting in a dump somewhere, though I have no sense of smell (a fact I was profoundly thankful for throughout most of 2008). And to be fair, sometimes I see interesting things. In fact, I’ve seen naughty and nice. I witnessed a parking lot mugging once, as well as the generosity and kindness of my owner and her co-workers, who volunteer at the school for the blind next door to their offices. And I’ve beheld the glory of many a full, bright moon on many a silent night. A most happy holiday happened this past Christmas, when snow graced Georgia on the day! The very day I tell you. I never thought I would see a White Christmas, but now I have. I could count my blessings more often I know. And yet, I can no longer pretend to be something I clearly am not, or at least vaguely am not. I want to be fully me, the best me I can be!
To wrap it all up, if I were living the life I was meant to live, it would go something more like this: I would be stored in an attic until after Thanksgiving, then I and my fellow Christmas cohorts would be brought down for decorations, cherished until the New Year, and promptly returned to our plastic bins to bask in the glow of the joy we gave and were given until the next year’s merry go-round. I would be in holiday heaven instead of jingle bell hell. And so, I refuse to continue living this lie. I am relinquishing my Santa-hood as it were. I could be anyone… I think I’ll get back to my Greek roots even…
And so, allow me to introduce my new self. I am now known to my friends simply as Nic, and I make a mean hummus spread.
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