Another occurred during :) Elementary School (: (I'm writing it like that to emphasize the contrast of my feelings between it and Middle School) when a friend invited me to go to church with her and her family. At the time I was thrilled because a lot of my other friends were active church-goers and they always made it sound awesome - like by not going I was missing out on the best things this life had to offer.
This was before I knew the truth. What I was expecting to be nothing short of a party turned out to be several hours of discomfort and listening to people prattle on about boring crap I didn't understand.
It boiled down to a trifecta of:
- I couldn't even talk to my friend who was sitting next to me singing every 5 minutes,
- I didn't know any of the songs nor did I care to, and
- Since my parents weren't there I had no one to exchange "what the f…?" looks with, so I had to sit there quietly for what felt like ten eternities and deal with it.
Needless to say that put a lasting sour taste in my mouth about church.
Furthermore, my understanding of Christmas was along the lines of: some dudes in the desert brought gifts for a baby who turned out to be Jesus, so now we give kids presents in the hopes that they too will turn out to be Jesus. Even though I now know this to be false, presents remain my favorite part of the holiday.
While I may not have been religious, I believed deeply in Santa Claus. There was no doubt in my mind that a rosy-cheeked fat man was pulled gleefully in a sleigh around the world by flying reindeer, consuming all cookies and milk in his path in a single night. I must admit… I was older than most when my belief in Santa Claus finally died.
But during the years I did believe, Mr. Cringle and I went through a rough patch. Around the age of 8, I started asking Santa for the two things I wanted most in this world:
- Magic powers (telekinesis, etc), and
- The ability to fly.
I didn't think I was asking for much, but apparently the ass-hats at the North Pole did.
Two Christmas mornings came and went and I was still having to walk everywhere and push things with my hands. But guess who still ate my cookies? Fat, stupid Santa, that's who. After two years of being ignored it was time to take things into my own hands. I decided to use my Spy-Gear, catch Santa, and interrogate the crap out of him.
So I rigged the house. Everything was in place: motion sensor, fingerprinting kit, periscope for easy surveillance around corners, invisible dust to track his footprints, and a bunch of other crap I can't even remember.
I was prepared mentally and physically for what was ahead of me. I slept the opposite direction in my bed so my head was closer to the door, I attempted (and failed) at sleeping with one eye open, and I had a chair and rope waiting downstairs. It was an ambush that would surely entrap even the most cunning and skilled special ops agent.
Alas, I did not wake up to the sound of my motion sensor going off. Santa had come and gone without a peep. He left presents; I still had to pick them up with my hands; the cookies and milk were gone. However this time… there was a letter.
OMFG I had gotten a letter from Santa! FROM SANTA!!!
I ripped it open and read what was essentially an explanation of why he could not give me those two things I wanted so dearly. I was mortified and heartbroken. It was like being rejected from my top choice university, or declined for a new credit card.
But, that year Santa gave me a cash register. It was something I had wanted almost as long as those powers… and you know what? It was the best present I have ever gotten.
Thanks, Santa :)
