Dear Santa, Can I Have A New Reality For Christmas

Helen Cassidy Page
Dec 24, 2019 · 7 min read

This one isn’t working out for me.

Photo by __ drz __ on Unsplash

Dear Santa,

Would it kill you to give me a winning lottery ticket just once? It seems that my odds of winning are the same whether I buy a ticket or not. You always seem to bestow the gazilion dollars on some clueless yokel who says the prize will never make her change her way of living.

Photo by dylan nolte on Unsplash

But here’s what I have to say about that. If you don’t know how to spend the money, you don’t deserve to win it. What’s with letting a Powerball go to that skinflint in the hinterlands who won’t even buy his mother a new house, when I’m here ready to buy out Amazon for all my nieces and nephews, and I haven’t even started on giving to the homeless. That’s after I’ve treated myself to a few goodies, of course.

But if you’d open your eyes, Santa, baby, I could take a load off your sled and do half your job for you and promise to share the wealth if you’d just give me a chance. I think you know where I live. I’m the one who always gets the dishtowels and weird books from Costco’s sale table. Not that I’m not grateful, but please.

Dear Santa,

Can I have my dimple back this year? When I was a cute little girl, all the grown-ups said I was adorable because I had this thing called a dimple. I wasn’t sure what it was but I liked it when they chucked me under the chin and gave me a cookie to go and play while they had a cocktail.

Photo by Ali Yahya on Unsplash

Now that I’m old enough to know how to rock a dimple, with a sexy wink at someone special and a come hither look, Father Time came along and buried it in a boatload of wrinkles.

I’m sure my dimple is still in there some place, and if you could just figure out a way to bring it front and center once more, maybe I could snag some looks on the street again.

Nothing shocking, mind you. I mean, look at my age. I’m not trying to be a cougar’s great-grandmother or anything. I just like to smile at strangers and hope they’ll smile back at me.

They do in Ireland and South Africa and a few other countries I’ve visited. I just haven’t gotten over the shock that in my own country, supposedly friendly Americans walk right by me as though I don’t exist.

They don’t return my smile or catch my eye. You’d think I was bloody invisible. Some say it’s my age, that when a woman reaches a milestone birthday, she’s just not worth much on the open market anymore. People stop seeing her, ignore her in lines in the grocery store and push past her to get a seat on the bus.

Fortunately, I have a cane to take care of that bit of business. I wave it and point to the sign behind them. They have to stand, even though they might stop looking at me.

But I don’t think it’s because I’m an old woman. People still love me. Ask my daughter, my friends, the people who send me bills every month and accept my money when I pay them.

No, I think it’s because I’ve lost my dimple, my get out of jail card. My childhood superpower. So if you could just dig it out of the canyon where it’s stuck beneath all the signs of cronehood, I’d appreciate it so I could have my social standing back.

Dear Santa,

Can I have one of the little reset button doohickeys that you see on all the newfangled tech gadgets? The one that I could push and get my faculties back?

It would reset my brain so my memory would function like it was programmed to do at birth. Currently, it’s stuck in a loop, and I only recall events before August 23, 1954. It wasn’t a particularly exciting time for me, high school, acne, and I was still waiting for my first period. Yeah, a late bloomer. And have you seen the fashions from the fifties? OMFG.

Please, get me out of this memory hell.

Photo by Nikita Kostrykin on Unsplash

I’m sure you’ve got one of those links I can click. It says restart or log off and log on again. I’ll have total recall once more of the names of all the people I’ve ever met.

No more embarrassing moments like the other day when I ran into my neighbor on the street. I’ve known her for twenty years and all of sudden I’m thinking Florence? Frieda? Rhoda? Like I’d never met her before. I coughed to cover up the moment, but it’s happening a lot. It was Grace, by the way, not even close.

Surely, one of your elves in your IT department knows what I’m talking about. I’d appreciate the hell out of you for one of those. I bet it would even fit in my stocking.

Dear Santa,

Could you please give my city a new planning department. They are tearing up the streets willy nilly. No, correct that. They have been tearing up the streets for years now. It seems every time I open my mail, I get a new, cheery update from the planning department informing me of the new expected date for the completion of roadwork or pipework or networking on the streets, or new detours, or taxes to pay for the roadwork or pipework or detours.

Photo by Tyler Nix on Unsplash

And to make sure they don’t disrupt traffic during the day, they do the really loud jackhammering under my window in the middle of the night.

Enough already! My friends won’t visit me anymore because they can’t get here from there. And if they do, the parking spots are taken up by the roadwork signs or the earthmoving equipment. So a few new eagle-eyes on the committees would be great to spot these boondoggles that tear up the streets, pave them over, and then give a new contract to someone else to tear them up again.

Dear Santa,

One last thing. Could you do something about the homeless, the sick and poverty-stricken? The unemployed and the lonely? Those living in war-ravaged countries, or hit by the first line of climate damage and under seige of floods, drought, and fires?

Because they have it even worse than I do. And it seems to be our new reality.

So, if I could sum up what I really want this year for Christmas, it would be a new reality. Because frankly, when I look out my window, the one I have just sucks.

Since you seem to be the guy with all the goodies, who can answer everybody’s letter and grant every wish, and all you ask in return is for all little girls and boys be good each year, well you’ve got it.

I mean, come on. How bad can a little kid be? It’s grown-ups who are impatient and grumpy when their kids are just being kids. So maybe you could throw some relief in for the parents. That way, as far as I can see it, we’ll all have a merry Christmas.

Then you and your reindeer can fly back to the North Pole for a well-deserved vacay, because I’ve got everything else handled.

Photo by Jonathan Meyer on Unsplash

I’m an editor and writer on Medium with Top Writer status. I’m also an editor for the publication, Rogues Gallery. I’ve published 55 titles on Amazon and edit for private clients. If you’d like to hire me as your editor for fiction, non-fiction, or business writing, please contact me here. If you’d like to read more of my work on Medium, click here to sign up for my newsletter. I’ll make sure you don’t miss a word. Thank you for reading.

Rogues’ Gallery

This is THE place for independent thinkers and respectful…

Helen Cassidy Page

Written by

Writer, editor, researcher, aging expert, life coach, sand tray coach. Read one of my 55 titles on Amazon:

Rogues’ Gallery

This is THE place for independent thinkers and respectful rabble-rousers. Release the rogue in you, break free of the herd and let’s shake things up, together!

Helen Cassidy Page

Written by

Writer, editor, researcher, aging expert, life coach, sand tray coach. Read one of my 55 titles on Amazon:

Rogues’ Gallery

This is THE place for independent thinkers and respectful rabble-rousers. Release the rogue in you, break free of the herd and let’s shake things up, together!

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