Merry After-Christmas To All!

Dreaming of the Most Magical Holiday of Them All

To a kid, Christmas is The Most Magical Holiday of Them All.  To my parents, however, it must have been the greatest mystery.  I was one of those kids who deeply believed in Christmas but definitely with the limited faculties of a precocious second–grader.  In the farce I had carefully crafted for myself, Santa did in fact exist, but he visited only the truly good children, those who had actually not done a single rotten thing all year long.  I figured those perfect children probably lived in faraway places ... like somewhere in India or perhaps in the Netherlands.  

Congratulating The Only Good Children in the World

This seemed to explain why we never actually saw Santa, as I was generally a good kid but certainly not perfect, and Big Brother, as far as I was concerned, was basically a childhood dictator. 

Childhood Dictator Trying to Control Me From A Very Young Age

  

Farce or not, I really liked the drama of Christmas.  The important thing was to not pop the bubble; as long as there was some room left To Believe, I was going to be ok.  Although I was pretty sure Santa's reindeer were flying over other continents, it didn't stop me from closing my eyes to pretend I could hear hooves on our rooftop.  And I definitely left out milk and cookies for Santa – specifically, those tasty Little Debbie’s oatmeal sandwiches.  

Milk and Cookies!  That Santa Is One Lucky Bastard!

I remember it all quite clearly.

That Santa Is One Lazy Bastard.

The next morning, the milk was still there, but the cookies were gone.  Dad explained that Santa wasn’t thirsty, which I accepted as plausible.  Later that day, however, I found the stack of cookies sitting on a pot in the refrigerator in plain view.  What bothered me was not that Santa didn’t eat the cookies or maybe that Santa didn’t even exist.  What bothered me was that my parents didn’t even try to eat or to hide the cookies.  

Would it have been so much trouble to pull out some clean Tupperware?  

The Milk And Cookie Incident was the first wobble in the Santa story.  As years passed, my parents left us with less room To Believe.  We never ever had a real tree but rather a four–foot tall aluminum number of which we decorated only one side; there were only enough lights zigzag across the front.  (Only our dog could see the back through the window, we rationalized, and we weren’t about to decorate for a dog.)  

"HEY!!! IS THERE SOMETHING GOING ON IN THERE???"

Sometimes we left the tree up so long that it made it all the way to the next Christmas.  Furthermore, Santa did not leave us gifts in stockings.  He used Big Brother’s old (but hopefully clean) sweat socks, which were stuffed with such highly desirable luxury items as oranges and cans of Campbell soup.  (In a good year, sometimes we got the Chunky variety.)

A Very Classy Christmas!

Despite these setbacks, I still wanted To Believe or, at least, to marginally survive Christmas.  Like any normal child, I would grope all the gifts under the tree, pressing my little fingers tightly against the wrapping paper to figure out what it was hiding beneath.  One year, one of the gifts I manhandled definitely felt like the shape of a new watch, which was totally awesome since my old watch had just recently stopped working.  

A New Watch!

On Christmas Day, however, when I ripped off the paper covering over what I hoped to be the glorious replacement, I heard the power To Believe hiss out of my little body.  

That Christmas gift turned out to be my same watch.  Still totally not working.  

Oh... Actually, The Same Watch

Mom beamed at me and asked if I liked the watch, but I was too confused at the time to answer.  (Years later, I asked my mom why she wrapped a nonfunctional watch under the Christmas tree for her only daughter, and she said she found it in my room and thought I had forgotten that it was “pretty.”  I had not.)

My parents also were notorious for shopping at the very last minute.  By that, I don’t mean a few days before Christmas Eve.  That’s American last–minute.  I mean Chinese last–minute, literally last minute, past midnight on Christmas Day while everyone was sleeping.  That meant the bulk of their “gifts” had to come from the only establishments open at that hour, namely neighborhood drug stores.  So that’s how the twelve–year–old who was constantly being lectured about the evils of dating ended up getting lipstick and pantyhose for Christmas 1988.  

Why Do I...

... Not Feel Sexy?

Should I Be...

... Robbing a Bank?

The drug store was also how Little Brother, seven–years–old that year, ended up getting the Most Legendary Christmas Gift Of All Time:  

Vacuum bags.  

What The...?

Many many years later, I asked my mom what she was thinking by giving her youngest son vacuum bags for Christmas.  Was this her not–so–subtle message that she needed more of Little Brother’s help with the housekeeping?  He seemed too young to wield a vacuum cleaner with any competence, so that didn’t really seem like a plausible answer. 

She explained, “WHEN YOU ARE LOOKING FOR A VACUUM BAG AND CANNOT FIND ONE, IT IS THE MOST PRECIOUS THING – THE TREASURE OF SURPRISE!  I WANTED TO SHARE THAT SPECIAL FEELING WITH YOUR LITTLE BROTHER.”

I’m not sure Little Brother ever saw it that way.  And I’m pretty sure the year he got vacuum bags for Christmas was the last year he believed in Santa.

The Vacuum Bag Who Sucked Away Christmas

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Since the early years of Christmas, we’ve continued to tolerate the holiday.  I couldn't take any of Mom's Christmas shenanigans too personally because her style of gift–giving was not confined to her own family.  As I remember it, the mailman always got creamy peanut butter and a roll of Scotch tape for Christmas, and the garbage man got a can of cheese puffs and a canned holiday ham.  These were all very fancy items in the our household, but I’m not sure our mailman or trash man could have figured this out on his own.  

This Mailman Does Not Know He's One Lucky Bastard

Unlike normal people who wake up early and all excited on Christmas, my brothers and I have historically always tried our best to sleep through as much of it as possible if not the entire day.  As an adult, I now actually spend a lot of time trying to find thoughtful and unique presents well in advance of midnight on Christmas Day, but often still I’m alone in this effort.

Not that the effort ever succeeds anyway.  For someone who gives gifts who make people cry, my mom isn’t so easy to please.  When presented with a nicely framed photograph of her beautiful grown children, she turned to my father to say, “THIS IS WHAT SHE DOES NOW.  SHE GETS US FREE THINGS.”  One year I gave her a new set of pots and pans to replace her old beaten-up set.  Her response?  “WHAT?  YOU WANT ME TO COOK FOR YOU?  IS THAT WHAT I AM?”  The foot spa I got her in 2010 was too complicated to use, and the purse didn’t have enough zippers.  (According to my mom, purses never have enough zippers.) 

And so despite my personal efforts in recent years, Christmas is definitely still an upside down affair at my house.  A few years ago, Big Brother made a major investment and paid twenty–five bucks on Amazon to replace the old aluminum tree with a “fancy” pre–lit fold–up tree.  It came in three parts, and like a mean cat, the tree always gave Little Brother a dozen scratches whenever he tried to assemble it.  (As proof there is no karma, somehow the undesirable task of assembly always fell upon poor Little Brother.)  

So whenever someone when the Christmas tree is going up, there's always a lot of groaning followed by a lot of cursing. 

 WHAT THE $*#@!  WHY ME???

From time to time, Mom still finds old things around the house to wrap up and put under the tree.  By “wrap,” I mean, use the traditional coverings of newspaper and black garbage bags.  Sometimes it is a pair of my old shoes she still finds fashionable.  Other years, it’s a raincheck, which historically has always been my mom’s favorite gift to give her children...

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas!

... that is, when she runs out of vacuum bags. 

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It goes without saying that my early Christmas memories have left an indelible mark on how I now personally conduct Christmas.  Little Brother likes to cite the time I gave him and our puppy a "joint" gift of tangerines and dog biscuits.  (To be fair, we were short on stockings, Little Brother loves tangerines, and I would argue it was obvious which gift was intended for whom.)  

Come Now, This Isn't Rocket Science

Last year I accidentally gave him a set of Arby's coupons usable only in Alaska.  (Apparently, even discounted roast beef in Alaska costs more than regular priced Arby's in California!)  This year, however, when I gave him half of Costco bag of craisins (a big sister has a duty to regulate her little brother's sugar intake), Little Brother actually thought it was a nice gift.  

Hey Little Brother, mission accomplished!

Big Brother, however, did not share my perspective when it came to the cans of minced clams I tried to put in his stocking this year.  

But Big Brother, clams are so fancy!  

At the end of the day, as much as I've grumbled about my childhood holiday memories, the truth is that our Christmas traditions (or lack thereof) have absolutely made me who I am, and I wouldn't  have it any other way.  They taught me:

• the value of appreciating what I already have, 
• the beauty and joy of whimsy and family, 
• and of course, the incredible versatility of socks.  

For this, I am nothing but eternally thankful and proud to share with you these precious memories...

... these Special Vacuum Bags of Christmas!

From Me To You!  Everything Is A Treasure!

Merry After–Christmas to all, 

and to all, a Good Night!

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Are You Ready to Zumble?

When the Zumba first hit this nation, I thought to myself, "What is this 'zumba,' and why is America crazy about it?"  Googling and poking around on Youtube left me curious but unconvinced, so I decided that I had to try it out firsthand before formulating any serious academic opinions.  Before long, I found myself purchasing my very first Groupon ever -- a brand spanking new zumba punch card.

The rest was history.

My first zumba class of my seven-class punchcard was almost my last.  The instructor had what could be only described as a ridiculously perfect body.  I don't mean just a nice, above-average athletic body but PERFECT, like Great Shape Barbie perfect.  In fact, she was dressed much like Great Shape Barbie from the 1980s -- a lot of fluorescent, stretchy, shiny fabric.  (I spent a lot of time gazing at her perfect shiny body before my eyes inevitably and unfortunately drifted back to my own feral self.)

My Zumba Instructor, Great Shape Zumbie

This was probably how my first zumba class got off on the wrong foot.

Most of the other attendees were of "a certain age," but our instructor (I'll call her Great Shape Zumbie for now) was probably half that in years.  Imagine being a creaky old person attending a class led by a young bubbly teenager.  And Great Shape Zumbie's face never seemed to stop making what I can only describe as "Expressions of Ecstasy!"  (An Expression of Ecstasy! is the opposite of what my family calls my "Lawyer Face," which is an intense, not-happy serious look, tinged with disdain.)


Every time I looked at the instructor, she was beaming a different Expression of Ecstasy -- so many smiles, winks, so much open-mouth astonishment, so many sexy looks!  Great Shape Zumbie moved like a neon Betty Boop!

Every time I looked at myself in the mirror, however, I saw only Lawyer Face staring back at me.  And surprise, surprise, Lawyer Face was not so sexy!

Lawyer Face Is Not Amused

Great Shape Zumbie's expressions so resembled those of a Japanese anime character that by the end of class, I was convinced that maybe we had just been taught Zumba by an overachieving stripper.  "Taught," of course, is a strong word.  We mostly followed her bouncing around.  She did briefly go over of some of the moves, but mostly it was her !fun! sexy self bouncing around and us dragging about our lackluster bodies, trying to go through the motions.  I watched the minute hand go around the clock with great interest.  At some point during the class, the instructor grabbed the largest lady in class by the waist and forced us all into a mandatory conga line.  

My Time on the Chain Gang

Afterwards, I went home and ate a really really big lunch of ox tail stew to make myself feel better.    

And so for many months during which my six remaining punches went unused and finally expired.  I thought that was it for me and zumba.  As far as I was concerned, Zumba was a lot like Spanx.  The only time I ever tried on a pair of Spanx, I remember experiencing only three things:  Discomfort, the Deprivation of Oxygen, and Desperation.

For a moment in that dressing room, my light-headed self had an epiphany -- "Maybe I should actually try a legitimate way of losing weight so I can avoid wearing Spanx?"

Like the Spanx, zumba also seemed like another complicated way to lose the war against weight gain.  Clearly I did not have the bubbly personality necessary to "shake it."  (Or so I thought.)  

Because eventually, I did in fact find myself in another zumba class.  It was a totally different place, a totally different instructor, and I decided to give zumba another chance.  This gym decided to turn down the lights a bit, which helped tone down the sometimes unbearable boldness that is the zumba.  And I found that after making note of the nearest exit (in case another conga line should form itself), I was able to relax.  To my surprise, this class was actually a very decent workout.  

When I looked in the mirror, I noted that Lawyer Face seemed to be smiling back.  

So something really weird happened in the middle of that class.  I got happy.  I got funky.  I got happy that I was so funky!  Soon I was smiling like a buffoon, and hey, where did that little extra pep in my grapevine come from? 

Then I accidentally kicked a load-bearing pole in the studio.  

And so, like the sun breaking through clouds, the moment of neurochemical bliss and spiritual clarity passed as quickly as it came.  Because then I got tired.  I got funky but in that kind of bad, smelly, why-didn't-you-take-the-garbage-out-earlier kind of way.  I was moving like a buffoon.  

And then Lawyer Face whispered - in case I had forgotten - "You hate the grapevine."  

But the thing about zumba is that it forces you beyond yourself -- it forces you to move more than your lazy self would normally entertain, and it also forces you to be happy.  Even the most depressed person in the world cannot consistently maintain a legitimate air of melancholia with limbs flailing about to the beat of a latin rhythm.  At some point, with all the sirens blaring, pistol shooting, horsey dancing, and jumping up and down like popcorn in a microwave, you can't help but laugh at yourself.  You can't help but laugh at life.  

I remembered having nothing but tremendous respect and adoration for our zumba instructor that day.  Her radiant smile, muscled body, and positive attitude could have gotten us through any earth-shattering apocalypse.  For a moment, I felt like I could do anything, too.  

I've probably still only taken a handful of zumba classes, but I know that they are not all created equal.  Each instructor is different.  Sometimes there is a conga line, and sometimes there is not.  And even though I now go in with eyes wide shut, for all the intel I already have from previous classes, what I end up doing in zumba still manages to surprise me from time to time.  

Surprised To Be Spanking an Invisible Butt as Exercise

Great Shape Zumble: This Is The Best I Can Do

While I may not be perfectly suited to zumba, in the meantime, I sure as hell can zumble.  In the immortal words of Olivia Newton-John:

Let's get physical - isical, I want to get physical, let's get into physical, lemme hear your body talk!

Everyone can zumble!  See ya at the next class!

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