Every Christmas, we must tell a good story, one that we may learn from, or share, or use to make for a better existence. This story could be about truth, or justice, or the origin of Santa Claus. Maybe that story could be about the uncovering of tru...
The Kingdom Affair restaurant in the upper section of town was world-renowned for its ritzy atmosphere, its genteel clientele, and its popularity among holidays. Established from the skeleton of an old ballroom at the base of a glamorous hotel, the restaurant developed a style of high-class living that rivaled the aristocracy, the wealth, and the social gatherings of the posh sort. It was the perfect locale to usher in the Rolls Royce of façades when the name of saving face was in order.
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For this wealthy establishment, Christmas Eve was regarded as the busiest night of the year. On this eve of holidays, families and cohorts of the upper class persuasion dined to their hearts' content, laughing and chatting over things that bore little significance to their lives. Dominating conversational topics ranged from pools, to spas, to Mercedes brand automobiles—all delivered through smiles that masked what people truly thought of the world. It was colorful bliss of the richest kind.
But on this particular Christmas Eve, something remarkable happened. All across the restaurant, from one wall to the other, from the big room to the private one, the façade somehow fell. Families and friends abandoned their discussions of plastic surgery and million-dollar homes to speak of life in its truest colors. Those who were sobered were stunned. "How dare they speak their mind?" they thought, as sincerity erupted from out of nowhere and threatened to unsettle their special little utopian thoughts.
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The first sign of this Christmas miracle began with a table of eight—four men, four women—all wearing thousand-dollar outfits and million-dollar smiles. They had just taken their seats, the drinks had already arrived, and the hors d'oeuvres were on the way when the first break in conversation occurred.
"And the Jaguar drives like a dream," laughed the first man, a frail gray-haired chap of about seventy. "I haven't been so happy since I got my latest Botox injection."
He took a sip of his soft drink, which he had ordered to keep from mixing his medication with alcohol.
"But then, what's a Botox injection," he continued, "but to mask my decrepit state and my inability to compete with the young men of today?"
