(On stage is a female, mid-30’s, drink in hand, frustrated and earnest)
When I was a little girl, I wanted to be part of the Christmas mystery. (pause) So very badly. (pause) I thought Christmas was the most magical time of year. And it wasn’t about getting presents, it was about giving them, and creating the spirit of joy.
Don’t get me wrong. I made my present lists faithfully, copying them out for my Santa letter, my parents, my grandparents, and a spare copy just in case someone asked for one.
But just as faithfully, I worked out hand-made cards with moving flaps and parts. I made thin clumsy scarves when I learned to knit. I created comic books on those old stencils for my mother to copy at her school. I went through my stash of precious objects to see if there was anything I could bear to part with. Anything that would have a better home with someone else.
And then, I would carefully plan the event. I would collect straws, pipe cleaners, paper plates, cotton wool…. whatever looked promising. And I would make costumes. Reindeer hats and collars. Santa’s beard. Harnesses. Bells. A pillowcase for the sack filled with delicate paper treasures for everyone.
Finally, I would wake up my little brothers on Christmas morning. They would stare at me -- all bleary-eyed -- as I tied the paper plates to their heads, put on my blue bathrobe because I didn’t have a red one, and jiggled the yarn harness to make them prance down the stairs while our parents slept.
Then I would lay the gifts under the trees while my brothers tore off their finery and threatened to tell Dad I’d been mean. And didn’t I know that girls can’t be Santa? I think they have since forgiven me, but I have never asked.
I bet little Cindi Lou of Whooville didn’t run into these roadblocks.
One year, I was so determined to bring the joy of giving to the rest of the year that I had what I thought was a flash of real brilliance. For Halloween, I was going to dress up as Santa Claus. The spirit of giving was written all over Halloween. Candy was doled out by the handful. Kids laughed in the streets and traded chocolate bars with friends. Mothers shared their clothes for costumes. Neighbours hung more imaginative dressing on their houses than at any other time of year. I thought for sure my costume as the big jolly guy would see everyone putting down their stink bombs and joining hands in joyous partying.
I used a whole roll of cotton for that beard. And borrowed my mom’s red suede jacket. And two pillows. And my best black rain boots.
And then Santa (me), and the four teenagers appointed to watch over me, put two burning bags on two front lawns, egged three cars, and toilet papered one backyard.
I thought for sure if there is a hell, then that night was going to send me straight there.
Cindi Lou Whoo probably never heard of stink bombs.
And here we are at another Christmas. And I have already blown my budget for gifts. And I have got my holiday earrings on. And if I could, well I would climb to the top of that tree and be the tree-topper. I would sing to the passers-by and be a shining light.
You who have close ties with the psychoanalytical professional are probably having a field day with me right about now. “She is trying to be loved.” “She is trying to be noticed.” “She is trying to make the world centre around her.” “She had a traumatic incident at a petting zoo at a young age and is acting out her repressed fantasies.”
Or maybe I just really like watching people forget for a moment that daily life can be miserable and it is okay to grab a moment of joy wherever you can? Just by believing this, can’t I live it too?
(she begins to sing very softly)
“Deck the Halls with bows of holly
Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la
Tis the season to be jolly
Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la”
Come on. Sing with me.
“Don we now our gay apparel
Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la
Join the ancient yuletide carol
Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la”
See? A group celebration. Lead by the-girl-who-would-be-Santa, and crooning from the top of the Christmas tree.
Yes, I know girls can’t be Santa. And we don’t sit up in trees once we have graduated to nylons. But I didn’t want to be an elf. Or Mrs. Claus. I wanted… I want still… to wear the red suit, laugh outrageously and expansively in public, give people presents, look kindly but reprovingly at them when they’re not being nice, and make open hearts a year round commitment.
Okay, so by that description Little Cindi Lou could have grown up to be an HR manager at a progressive company.
(She takes out 2 paper plates with pipe cleaner antlers)
What I am saying is…
I made this. It’s not as good as the ones I used to make and keep under my bed months in advance. I kind of threw it together at the office. The plate and straws are from our company pot luck. The pipe cleaners are leftover from something Graphics was doing on Bring-Your-Kid-to-Work Day. And the string is from the name tag from my last convention.
But I figure there must be other folks out there… other Cindi Lou wannabees… other elves… other tree toppers… back-up Santas even…, and the only way to find out was to start making the costumes again.
Because it could be Christmas all the time you know.
You have to understand, I’m Jewish. It’s not about religion.
(She ties on the hat)
The holidays are one size fits all, see?
The Christmas mystery is us. And I am willing to brave my brothers in my blue bathrobe if just one of you would like to play too.
(She offers the other hat to the audience as the lights fade)
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