The Christmas List

A friend asked me what I wanted for Christmas, “anything special you want,” and as always, “no,” I replied, “nothing particular, nothing I can think of.” Actually, I really don’t like the Christmas List, that annual list my wife and family ask for about this time of year, if not earlier, usually before Thanksgiving. I suppose I could wax philosophical, poetic even, about wanting world peace or some abstract, undeliverable, unwrappable gift of vacations or large sums of money or time or things, material things I’m not sure I really “want,” but maybe merely dream of, fantasize about. So please, everyone, don’t ask; I really don’t know what I want.

Of course, there are those who persists, my wife for one, those who need a list, need options, need things to choose from, things to be able to go directly to in Walmart, K-Mart, Target even, other choices available if option #1 is sold out, not on the shelf, or on backorder until after Christmas. A list with the appropriate website, free shipping if possible, and an online sale, is even better. So for them, if I must, to get them off my back, get them to stop asking, stop bugging me about a Christmas list, I grudgingly put together a list, a list of things I might want, might appreciate getting, but things I probably wouldn’t buy for myself, things not that important that I have them, my life no worse off for not having it, like the complete collection of The Muppet Show, Seasons 1, 2, and 3, or The Prisoner, that 60s cult classic TV show, or maybe some book I’ve thought about buying, but not high on my list of books to read before I die, like another copy of Don Quixote or some new version of King Arthur, books more to have on my shelf than to read, but how many version of King Arthur unread does one person need on his bookcase? And then there’s Mickey Mouse memorabilia, stuffed or pinned or pictured, no reason to have it except to add it to the already probably too large collection of Mickey Mouse stuff laying around my desk and book shelves collecting dust, taking up space, not even as collectors’ items as some kind of investment for the future - I just like Mickey Mouse.

Without a list, how is anyone supposed to shop for me, to put a meaningful gift under the tree, prettily wrapped and bowed to be torn open, paper asunder, on Christmas Day? How will they know what to get me, know what I want; what are they to do? OK, then, here is my list, a short one, flexible enough so everyone I give it to can safely find something someone else will not pick, for my list is but one thing of which there are many options, options for the wealthy who would lavish me with expensive trinkets reflecting their own wealth, and options for the destitute reduced to homemade gifts from the scraps of their lives available to them, and options for everyone in between, wherever you see yourself fitting. The option is even there to get me nothing if that is what you choose, and I’ll harbor no ill-will toward anyone for that; your friendship will suffice. The one item on my list? Buy me, make for me, get me whatever you wish to give me, whatever is meaningful for you based on who I am to you, how you know me. It will be meaningful, trust me, for the meaningfulness is not in what I want, but in what you want for me to express your love, to share your feelings, to signify our relationship, for that is the meaning of Christmas, the spirit of giving, the spirit of Santa Claus.

And be assured, you who have given me your list, I have it; long or short, I have it, have read it and considered it, but probably wrapped in Christmas paper tied with a bow under the tree will not be anything on your list, for that is not what I want to give you. If you want something on your list, truly want it enough to put it on your list, go buy it for yourself to be sure you get it, for I will give you myself and the gift that best says, “I love you, Merry Christmas.”