Like a Kid Again

There are presents at my house.

Somehow the Treehouse has filled up with bow-y goodness, and tinseled and colorful packages are spilling off the tile onto the carpet. Being an adult, I have let them sit there and twinkle in the flattering lighting, not once needing to accost them in any way. They will be opened this weekend, no compromise necessary. They are friends whose presence I relish and I will be sad to see them go.

This weekend, all that changed. Three new presents arrived, nestled in my special man friend's arms. And all of a sudden, the voice in my head that was once so calm and logical is now saying "Your boyfriend got you THREE things! And they are pretty and shiny! Now get over there and shake the shit out of them!" The voice continues to say, "In fact, these presents are from people who are 1000 miles away! How are they ever going to know you shook and prodded them? You could even OPEN them and they would be none the wiser!"

So now, the area of the Treehouse that once created such joy and warmth is now annoying the hell out of me.

In fact, a package shipped to me from QVC arrived today. It looks kind of damaged. I think I had better open it and make sure it isn't all smashed up...whatever it is. The scissors are sitting right here, and the package is within reaching distance...

Oh no, it's happening. I just slit the clear tape on the outside of the box. A wonderful gingerbread smell is filling my senses. The aroma is wafting towards me, both easing my animalistic present-craving while somehow feeding the flame! I must save this present by unsheathing it from its cardboard prison! Onward!

It's open. More boxes lie within. Styrofoam. Tape. A little gingerbread card. What could it be?

Ah, a candle! A sweet, gingerbready candle. It even has a little lampshade with dancing gingerbread men on it. Adorable! Thank you Mom (and QVC)!

Should I feel bad? Have I broken some code, some unspoken law that governs all of us Judeo-Christian motherfuckers around this time of year? Am I going to hell? Or will I wake up with no presents? Will my leg fall off, or will my face break out in a rash of oozing pustules?

At least my apartment smells way tasty.

knock on wood. g