It's Christmas day, 2011. I'm so happy because not only did my kids believe me at 2 AM when I told them Santa hadn't come yet, but they went back to sleep until 7 and then we had "the best Christmas EVERRRR!" And now we're all dressed up fancy and I get to play the piano for the choir. We choose a pew close to the front so between songs I can sit with my family and feel warm and fuzzy.
You know, it's all Santa's fault, really. And I'm not just picking on him because I think he gets way too much credit for the gift giving. I don't have any elves and I manage. But if he hadn't put those little organza bags full of treats in the kids' stockings, everything would have been fine.
I stand, I walk to the piano for the next number, pleased with this happiest of Christmases. Behind me my family gasps and points at the organza bag clinging to my butt like a little white bow of Christmas cheer. Do they stop me? No. Three generations are rolling in the aisle, attracting the attention of ten surrounding pews who watch me mosey to the front of the chapel with a gift wrapped heiney.
So, my plan is to time walk back to December 25th and delicately pluck the decoration from my booty before anyone notices. But . . . here I am, and there I go, and my family looks so happy, faces burning red with the best kind of don't-laugh-in-church giggling, and the guy behind them leans forward and tells my husband, "Now that's a heck of a gift". And now my mom's wiping her eyes. Aww. Look at that.
Oh, fine. Merry Christmas, congregation. From the heart of my bottom.