All I Want for Christmas is Some Nyquil and a Hot Bath

Ol' St. Nick has apparently decided that I needed a cold for Christmas. I hardly ever get sick, but when I do, it's always at the least opportune time. (Although there isn't really a good time to be sick, I guess.) Not only do we have the Christmas marathon to get through, but I didn't take any time off work this year. So, come Friday morn, it's back to the office for me. I asked myself this morning, when I awoke feeling crummy, why Santa would give me the physical equivalent of a giant lump of coal this year. And I think I've figured out the answer.

First, some backstory. I was a giant know-it-all when I was a kid. My mom had to explain to me, when I was about eight, that grown-ups didn't really like it when little girls corrected their grammar. If I knew something, I was going to tell you about it in great detail--and you were going to listen. It made me particularly happy to tell someone something they didn't know.

On Christmas Eve, 1976, my mom came home late from a party. She tiptoed into the room where I had climbed in bed with my grandmother to wait for Santa. Since I was quite proficient at faking sleep, she felt free to converse with Granny. And what did she say, you might be wondering? She said, "Where did we put the rest of the toys? We need to get all this stuff out so we can go to bed."

My little six-year-old mind was reeling. I had heard rumors, of course, that Santa wasn't real, but my faith was still pretty strong up to that point. But there it was: clear evidence that the whole thing was a hoax. I wasn't particularly sad (since I knew that I was still getting presents anyway), but I knew that I would explode if I didn't get to share the big news with someone, and soon.

Well, that "someone" was my two older cousins. I told them the next day when we went over to their house for Christmas dinner. They were both still firm believers, and I had to repeat what my mom said several times in order for it to sink in. You know what the worst part of the story is? It's not that I disavowed two of my family members of their notions of Santa--it's that I was filled with unholy glee at the prospect of sharing the information. That was kind of evil.

Now I'm not so sure that he's fake, though. I think he may actually be real, and he's paying me back for the Christmas of 1976. He decided not to keep the walking doll that I got that year (she was awesome!), but instead waited patiently, for 32 years, to exact his revenge. So, despite the jolly image and all the good press, it seems that he might have a bit of an evil streak, too.

Have a Merry Christmas, everyone! I'll be over here snuffling, hacking, downing cough medicine, and trying not to breathe on anyone.