All I Want for Christmas is Silence
By Sophie
It’s the most wonderful time of the year…for someone who actually cares about snow, Christmas trees, the obnoxious sounds of children screaming in delight, and for someone who enjoys having the lines to “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” chanted at them every time you get in the queue at the supermarket.
I get that not all countries or cultures celebrate Christmas – honestly, you are the lucky ones. For people like me, the 24th and 25th of December means being forced to perch awkwardly downstairs on the living room table, just so your parents can inform the rest of your family how terrible your latest report was, and so that Auntie Karen can pinch your cheeks and inform you, very helpfully, that perhaps this Christmas you should lay off of the mince pies.
Yes, thank you, I didn’t need you to enlighten me on my physical stature again – I’m perfectly capable of peering into a mirror myself (unless, of course, they have been decorated in Santa stickers; if that is the case, I will proceed to projectile vomit in the sink and take my leave).
However, even these puke-worthy moments are topped by the single worst “tradition” in Christmas history:
Secret Santa.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy receiving and giving gifts. It’s that I hate receiving and giving gifts to and from people I would much rather ignore permanently. If I wanted to make conversation with Eric from the Food and Veg aisle, I would personally approach him, not send him a badly-wrapped box containing a half-ripped sheet of Christmas stickers and my mother’s used elf hat.
Even worse is when they put a price minimum on it. Who on the face of the Earth wants to spend (insert half of job salary here) on somebody they completely detest? In reality, if you’re going to drag me into an excruciatingly painful event, I will go down to the local convenience store and purchase the cheapest bar of chocolate possible; I will not go to the effort of forcing myself to choose between the cheapest bar and a slightly more expensive one.
I remember, back when I was naïve and innocent, I actually put a considerable amount of effort into somebody’s Secret Santa gift. I had overheard them moaning about how they would love a portable speaker, so I, very generously, purchased them a speaker in the shape of a milk cartoon, which I thought was both practical and adorable. Plus, who doesn’t love cows?
Of course, what did I find? A week later, they were complaining once more about the fact that this gift had a delightful cow drawing on the front, and how they had a pure hatred for all things bovine.
Well, I think we all know who the real cow is in this story, Lisa from aisle 7. If you’re reading this, I hope one day you get trapped in a room with a herd of cows: I’m sure you’ll be right at home with them.
In a shocking plot twist, however (yes, that’s right, hold on to your seats, dear readers), I was actually Lisa’s Secret Santa – these things have a tendency to never remain secret.
She had bought me a wooden puzzle cube (naturally, the packaging was already open and smelled suspiciously of blood), with a note attached saying, “Good luck! This is really difficult, so hopefully you don’t struggle with this like you do with work.”
The joke’s on you, Lisa, I didn’t fail at the puzzle once; it went straight in the bin as soon as I got home, along with my estimation of you.
Do you see now, dear readers? This is exactly what I’m talking about – nothing good can ever come out of giving things anonymously.
Did the Greeks choose to remain anonymous when they left the Romans the gift of a rather magnificent Trojan horse? Never!
Were the French secretive when they gave the US the Statue of Liberty? Of course not! Can you imagine them trying to wrap that for Secret Santa? It would never work!
Prometheus – did he choose to remain silent when he stole fire from Zeus? I couldn’t answer that one, because instead of doing my exam revision and reading that particular material, I’m sat here writing out this damned article!
So, there you have it! Next time you’re forced to take part in the vulgar act of generous gift-giving, just remember to buy the cheapest, vilest product you can find, sign your name right across the top of the wrapping paper, and I can guarantee you this: you’ll never have to take part in Secret Santa again!
I need to go cool off for a bit.
- Sophie