Holiday Letter, Tucked Inside Your Card

All my best lines come from movies,

but if I project and sound convincing no one notices.

I still get great reviews.

Last year I wrote about shaving resolutions and how

changing was impossible when you can’t make decisions,

this year I’ve decided it’s possible

to resolve to write my own lines;

maybe I’ll look more like an actress,

less like a drama queen.

Yesterday I read his profile and it

made me shudder – wonder how I ever fit into that mold,

or why I thought I should, or shouldn’t,

thankful that I didn’t – wish I hadn’t tried so hard.

I wouldn’t say yes again,

guess I couldn’t be sure until

I made it through all the contractions,

abbreviated contradictions are not my forte’;

I think about things for fourteen years or so

before I admit an aborted launch into

a moonless bliss mission.

The take-off will be much smoother than the landing this year.

I haven’t processed my newest adventure yet,

but I’ve got it simmering on the back burner –

with clove and orange rind and a cinnamon stick

so it doesn’t stink up my prayer.

“God grant me the serenity

to choose the right shoe

to go with the correct outfit

to perfectly suit the occasion

which I’m unable to change,

the courage to change into the hot pink pumps

with straight leg, dark wash jeans, and the

tailored white shirt when what I really want

is fleece pajama bottoms, no bra and my bed,

and the wisdom to know the difference

between shit and Shinola.”

Ahem.

Could I ask Santa Jesus for just one more Christmas story?

(I promise to be good and listen.)

I need to unwrap my gifts

with more finesse, save the shiny paper,

tie the ribbons around my wrist

to remind me that I haven’t torn

everything to shreds – it just seems that way

when I find another empty box filled with pieces.

(I really want to hear that story again.)

I think the myth will die with him, but

I’ll resurrect it and create my own religion, and

try not to make anyone feel like a failure.

If I fail, you’re still going to love me.

(That’s step #1 in my drama reduction therapy class –

I passed with a bye, however, step #2 must be played out.)

Step #2 - If you love me, I’m still going to fail.

If I had been born with dark hair and dark eyes,

like a tiny girl messiah, things would be different.

Would things be different?

Listen closely…you can hear clearly

a love so purely intent on purifying me -it’s really not a crucifixion,

just an old case of chronic post partum depression.

I’m looking for someone

to run my lines with,

just as I am.