I remember the first time I started to suspect Santa wasn’t real. It was when I was three and my mom said, “Joel, Santa isn’t real. He’s made up and all your friends’ parents are lying to them. Also, don’t tell your friends because we don’t want their parents getting mad at you.” So I sort of became this shell-shocked kid for a couple years who would just constantly think about how none of my friends knew this terrible secret and how I was so, so alone in the world. But I mean, I still got presents.
You’d think that my parents sucking out the magic of an obese man breaking into our home to give me presents might have ruined the holidays for me, but as I said earlier, I still got presents. It’s in the last few years when the real bitterness set in. But I don’t want taint this letter with negativity, because the holidays deserve better than that, because the holidays are _goddamn_ magical.
I don’t care if it’s a some-sort of corporate gimmick. There’s still this unexplainable, infectious feeling that’s everywhere you go after Dec. 1 hits. It’s kind of like that moment when you wake up and you realize that you still have another hour before you actually have to get up, except that feeling is perpetually in the air and everyone knows it. I am smiling _all_ _the_ _time_ during the holidays because they’re about everything I love.
They’re about putting off pitch emails to watch that eighth hour of Harry Potter Weekend. They’re about wandering around campus during a blizzard and yelling songs at the top of your lungs with your best friend. They’re about blaring “My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy” and listening to Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You” for the 72nd time, and they’re about throwing up hot chocolate in a toilet for three hours and so much more.
I don’t care if Santa isn’t real. Christmas is the closest thing to magic that’s ever going to happen in my life, and I’m going to savor every last second of it.
Happy Holidays, everyone.