Christmas is something I spend a lot of time preparing for. I spend a decent amount of money buying, and an even greater amount of time making, presents to give to my family, my in-laws, my friends, and inevitably some acquaintances, charities and volunteer organizations. I would say that I spend October through December with "preparing for Christmas" at the periphery (if not the forefront) of my mind. Ironically, I give approximately zero thought as to what other people could give me as a gift, and when the inevitable "So, what would you like for Christmas?" is asked, I find myself dumbstruck. Every year I seem to repeat the same deer-in-the-headlights moment, as though it's the FIRST TIME anyone has ever asked me such a difficult and mind-boggling question.
So this year, I decided to come up with a list of things I'd really love to get for Christmas:
(If, for some strange reason, you would like to get me a gift but can't manage anything on this list, I'd also enjoy a nice pair of thick socks or some flannel shirts)
A magical ceramic mug that keeps my coffee hot indefinitely. They make a mug, called the Ember Mug, that does exactly this--but it's all metal and insulated and requires technology and charging and whatnot. I want a magical, beautiful, hand-thrown mug--ergonomically delightful, rustic in its aesthetic but deftly glazed, heavy enough in the hand that it imparts a feeling of deep realness. And it makes coffee taste, somehow, even better than it already tastes, and it eliminates nearly all the caffeine from any coffee I may want to drink, so that I can drink as much as I want and I won't have heart palpitations or an anxiety attack. And it's unbreakable.
A mouth-watering charcuterie board that does not makes me feel like shit after I've eaten it. Pungent and salty aged cheddar, creamy and almost-melting-at-room-temperature brie, tangy and velvety chevre, an earthy, fudgey bleu cheese. Roasted nuts galore--pecans, cashews, walnuts, pistachios, and more pecans (but candied). Dried figs, dates, and cherries, and maybe some fresh strawberry preserves or blackberry jam. Soft and steaming hunks of fresh French bread, sturdy and herb-laced cubes of focaccia, seeded crackers, wood-fired flatbread. Olives and pickles, and maybe some anchovies. I'd eat the whole board, and drink a whole bottle of rich red wine, and afterward I'd get up and go on with my day and I wouldn't have a terrible stomach ache or crippling heartburn at all.
A pair of shoes that, when worn, make all the joints in my legs and feet feel the way that they did when I was a kid--that is to say, I don't feel them at all. I can walk for days at a time and jump from a height of 10 feet onto concrete and I don't think anything of it. Maybe they make it feel like I'm walking in water but without all the lag and resistance--just kind of weightless and free.
An absolutely insane rainstorm. For a week, it just RAINS--not a drizzle, not a sprinkle, not a light shower, but an all-out downpour. A monsoon-season-in-Vietnam kind of rain. And there is dazzling, powerful lightning, humbling and house-shaking thunder, and gusts of wind up to 40 miles per hour. The power goes out sometimes, and comes back on at other times. I suddenly have a fireplace and I basically live in front of it. There is flooding in the streets and everyone is house-bound--but no one gets hurt, no homes or cars or property is damaged, and everyone gets to take paid leave from work. Drones can deliver our groceries, and we all rediscover the joy of hunkering down in an elaborately-constructed blanket fort.
The complete works of Stephen King, leather-bound and gold-leafed and gorgeous. There are also a bunch of books in it that he never actually got around to writing, ideas he had that never went anywhere, but in my one-of-a-kind collection... Those books exist, and I get to read them. And if he's had any personal journals over the course of his life, those are in there, too. And I guess I'd need an antique bookcase to house this new collection: made from richly oiled mahogany, intricately carved and scrolled, it would stretch from floor to ceiling.
A chance to eat any dish I want from all of my favorite restaurants that have closed over the years.
A semi-permanent haircut. I get it cut, and it just stays that way until I use a special shampoo that re-activates hair growth.
My sense of smell. (No, I don't have Covid.) This sounds preposterous, but over the last decade or so I've largely lost my sense of smell. I have to actively TRY to smell things, which is actually a sort-of-fantastic superpower when I'm anywhere that smells horrible (walking past a garbage dump, cleaning a cat's litter box, riding a crowded bus in the middle of summer), but kind of sucks the rest of the time. I'd love to be able to walk outside on a winter morning and smell the sweet mustiness of dead leaves and wet concrete, or the lively spiciness of the air in a cafe, or the balmy perfume of my shampoo when I'm taking a shower... but without having to flare my nostrils and massage my sinuses and breath in as deeply as possible.
Private piano lessons with a patient and skillful teacher who has no interest in small-talk, and the time, space and dedication to actually become a great piano player. I'd need an accompanying baby grand piano, of course. And maybe longer fingers.
The ability to fly. Ugh, it feels so tacky to ask for the ability to fly. Such a cliché--and really, one shouldn't ask for the ability to fly as a gift. That's more than a little over-the-top and extravagant, it's something that I should really just get for myself. But if I'm being honest about what I'd really like, something I'd really use every day, I mean... Yeah, I'd like to be able to fly.
COVID magically disappears and everyone runs out of their houses into the streets, their maskless mouths sending up clouds of safe steam in the cold, early-morning air. All thought of gift giving or receiving is promptly forgotten like an unimportant footnote. There is much singing and shouting, laughing and embracing, hugging of strangers and kissing of old friends on the cheek, and everyone's standing so close together that I start to get sweaty, and someone steps on my foot but I'm so happy to be so close to so many people that I don't even feel it. We all join hands and sing and dance like crazy, a spectacle that is part Dahoo-Dores-in-Whoville from How The Grinch Stole Christmas, part ancient Yuletide festival (but maybe without the slaughtering of livestock). At the end of the day we all drop to sleep wherever we happen to be out of sheer joyful exhaustion. The morning after we all feel ever-so-mildly chagrined, but then we eat leftovers and take long, hot showers and help clean up, and agree that it was quite a good Christmas.