Dear Santa

1. The Letter

Dear Santa,

In the interest of full disclosure, I am not a child. Not only am I not a child, I'm a grown woman with a grownup job and grownup problems. It's these grownup problems that have me writing to you like some kind of glue-sniffing nutcase.

Why? I don't know. I was walking to work earlier this week when a big, red "Letters to Santa" box appeared on the sidewalk one day. I thought it was cute. I'm pretty sure it's a marketing ploy for the accounting office behind the box, but still. What a nice idea to give some kids hope.

I've been walking past this box every day now for a week. Now here I am, pouring out my guts on paper because, I don't know, there's just something about a personal letter to a mythical figure that feels so compelling. Maybe it's because I got that shiny blue bike I'd wanted so badly after writing a letter to you about it when I was eight. Remember that?

Or maybe it was that one year when I wrote to you asking for nothing except to get my parents to stop fighting. Well, a divorce wasn't exactly what I was asking for, but it certainly stopped the fighting, didn't it? They're actually good friends now, believe it or not. I guess they just couldn't live together.

Now, twenty years later, I'm writing a letter to Santa again. I'll probably just throw this away when I finish writing it, but for a few precious moments, I'd like to suspend reality and believe there really is some magical, kind, wish-granting, bearded grandpa figure out there, listening to me.

So here's the thing: I'm gay. Oh my god, it feels so weird writing that. Yet it feels right. There's no doubt in my mind that I like women. And that I'm probably doomed. Because I'm also terribly shy. If I was straight, then at least the onus for asking someone out is on the guy, right? But how does that work between women? I have no idea. I'll probably just turn into a musty, mumbling spinster with a house full of ferrets. I mean, I like cats, but they're so cliché.

My mom started dating this construction worker. I know this letter is turning into a rambling, pointless soliloquy, but hear me out. I really do want my mom to be happy, and if satisfying one of her Village People fantasies with a fifty-year-old man in a tool belt does that for her, then more power to her. But deep in the selfish recesses of my depressed, gay mind, I was kind of hoping we would be empowered single ladies together. Or something.

I don't think I'm making sense anymore. I guess I'm just lonely. I mean, I MUST be lonely if I'm writing a letter to Santa! I'm not usually this sad and pathetic. Truly. I'm actually an accomplished graphic designer with a fulltime job and everything. I'm just having a moment of weakness, I guess. Probably brought on by my mom's excited proclamations over her new beau's "pinchable butt".

I should probably burn this now. Erase all evidence of my sanity loss.

Tomorrow. I'll do it tomorrow. For today, I'll pretend you exist, and that on Christmas Day I'll get to unwrap the girl of my dreams.

Sincerely,

Leona