I’ll admit it: I did not write a single Christmas card this year.
Oh, I should have. I should have sat down like a good little girl and wrote out dozens of times “Merry Christmas! Love, Newsbunny!” However, I didn’t. I’ve had two biopsies in the last three weeks and I just didn’t feel like it.
My husband is another story. He is half-elf. He bought Christmas cards, carefully chosen, filled with as much glitter as possible, wrote a personal message in every single once of them, sealed the envelope with his own precious ginger saliva, popped a Christmas stamp on the whole thing, and dumped it the mailbox, mostly likely while Whos from Whoville gathered round him holding hands and singing songs while a gentle snow fell on his dark red hair.
Not sending the Christmas cards doesn’t mean I didn’t get them. I got them. A couple dozen. Some people kind of stamp their names on them. Some people write lovely, long messages. Some people write those terrible newsletters (I barely remember you from high school, and I don’t care what instrument young Timmy is mastering now. I’m sorry.) My sister sends a picture card with her St. Bernards decked out in holiday gear. My mother sends separate cards to my cats.
So now they’re here. What the hell am supposed to do with them now?
During the Christmas season, I hang them up around the fireplace, or around a doorway.
But now Christmas is over. And I’ve got a giant pile of Christmas cards that no longer appear to serve any function.
Every January I ask this question:
What the hell am I supposed to do with all these cards?
I’d like to know your answer.
