It’s that time of year (while I’m still digesting Thanksgiving giblets and deviled eggs) that I unveil my yearly Christmas list of things that I really don’t want, but will probably get, anyway.
Receiving what you don’t want for Christmas is traditional for fathers like me. When I was a kid in the 1970s Christmas shopping for my dad, I’m pretty sure his list never included Brut Soap on a Rope or the Smokeless Ashtray by Ronco. But it doesn’t hurt to wish — and then be plagued by disappointment.
First on my list is to go for one full month without discovering from my three semi-grown daughters that at least one of their vehicles has suffered some minor tragedy that will cost me at least $500 to repair or inflate my car insurance premium to levels that exceed the national debt. Such incidents include, but are not limited to, traumatizing curbs, running over those concrete thingies at the ends of parking spaces and, speaking of parking, maneuvering way too close to brick mailboxes, privacy fences or jacked-up redneck pickups with unreasonably large tires.
Number two on my list is to live one day without my lower back, shoulders, knees or earlobes feeling like they have recently been involved in a violent parking incident with one of my three daughters. To alleviate these aches, pains and sensations of general decomposition, my doctor has prescribed a series of elaborate daily stretches that require me to lie on the floor, repeatedly question my doctor’s credentials and contort my limbs into embarrassing positions that would probably get me arrested if I did them in public. I’m not sure the stretches are working at all, but my wife and pets seem to get a lot of enjoyment out of watching me do them.
And since we’re on the subject of my crumbling anatomical infrastructure, I would really love to wake up on Christmas morning to discover that my love handles have abandoned my lower abdomen in disgust over the country’s current political climate and moved to Canada. I’ve spent the last 40 or so years trying to get rid of them through silly activities like exercise and healthy eating (except for all the chips and salsa), only to have them continue to mock me when I try to buy clothes that don’t make me look like I’m packing a couple of spare Bundt cakes. If I can’t lose them altogether, I’d be good with shifting them a little lower and to the rear so I could sit longer while eating chips and salsa.
Finally, I’d like for Old Saint Nick to relieve me of the nagging longing I have for the past — when our daughters were younger and I had less hair in my ears. In those days, they would eagerly hold my hand, draw pictures for me and admit to others that we’re related.
I know kids (and I) have to grow up, and I’m incredibly proud of the young women mine have become. But I’d give just about anything for those three little girls to give me one more Christmas present — even Brut Soap on a Rope.
Jase Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. Contact Graves at susanjase@sbcglobal.net.