As you may have noticed, my name has not appeared in your stack of letters for many years — but I am back with one final request. This year, when I am awoken by my grandparents’ dog on Christmas morning and enter their jubilant living room, I do not want to see a gift for me under the artificial tree festooned with classy gold ornaments. This year, I want to enjoy Christmas like I did the last time I wrote you.
I want to be excited to look at Christmas lights instead of dreading the car ride through various suburban neighborhoods and glancing away as my parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins and brother point out lavish homes so that I don’t get a migraine from the intense lights.
I want to be able to eat frosted gingerbread men and peanut butter fudge and warm, freshly-baked snickerdoodles (my favorite cookie, by the way) without fear of gaining a mere ounce of fat and throwing away my 364 days of salads and starvation for a single cookie.
I want to enjoy spending time with my family and watching Family Feud and playing Mexican Train without waiting until I’ve spent enough time with them to justify going back to my room and watching “The Polar Express” in the comfort of my own silence and isolation.
I want to look at Christmas with childlike joy and wonder rather than cynicism and acrimony.
Thanks. Merry Christmas.