Pavlovian Christmas Cards

I am ruined for Christmas cards.

Growing up, there was always a good chance that when I opened a Christmas card from a grandmother or an aunt or a family friend, something flat, fungible, and quite possibly green would slip out and flutter to the floor. At the height of the phenomenon in early high school, I made out like a jolly Christmas bandit. And when my birthday rolled around a few weeks later, my wallet could engorge itself on a second wave of cards.

As much as I enjoyed the holiday largess, maybe I would have been better off without it. Because today, when finding a heartfelt message from a friend should be worth more than any amount of money, I find myself reading their words through a thin layer of disappointment that their loving sentiments weren’t hidden behind a greenback or two. It’s not even rational. I could find a card taped to a case of champagne or resting on the hood of a new Ferrari, and I would still be disappointed not to find a check for $10 tucked inside.

My soul-rot could take a while to clear out, but hopefully I can help out the next generation by holding out on them. Not that I actually send Christmas or birthday cards, but I imagine I’ll get around to it some day, and when I do, we’ll keep it traditional. Open up the card and find … nothing? Another, smaller card reading “it’s for your own good”? Anthrax? OK, not anthrax. But no cash, no checks.

Actually, maybe checks that bounce. That’ll teach them.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, December 27th, 2005 at 9:36 am and is filed under Gibberish. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.