When we were kids, my brother and I would go through the Sears (and, later, JC Penney) catalogs and mark all the items we wanted for Christmas. These were exaggerated wish lists, with each of us asking for more than the other in a competitive hedging of bets in case there really was a Santa Claus (kids, there is, and stop reading now). It was more the fun of the activity, and the small sliver of hope that some bit of magic might make it to the North Pole that kept us doing this, and there was something in the anticipation that made it fun for me. I’d sit in the plaid chair of the family room by the lamp, earmark each precious page that held any sort of treasure, and examine the colorful photos looking for anything interesting and reasonable.
This year will mark the first that I’m not publicly posting my Christmas Wish List. (I still have my Amazon Wish List up for public viewing.) The reason being that most of you don’t get me anything, and it’s easier to just give the list to Andy and my Mom and call it a day. Besides, Christmas is not about getting or requesting gifts – it’s about remembering those pre-holiday nights in our family room with my Mom and Dad and brother milling about, and dreaming safely of items I never needed because I was perfectly content right where we were.
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