When I was little, I spent Christmas with my family at my Grandma’s house. My aunt and uncle were also there, and we were having a large family gathering. To me, all this meant was I was about to receive a shit load of presents, and that’s something that I could really get behind.
On Christmas Eve, while the adults all got hammered by the fireplace, my brother and I sat in the corner, playing with army men and a giant black plastic mountain. Soon enough, we started punching each other and needed to be separated. I chose to join my sister at the dollhouse and played some good old fashioned barbies.
The increasingly drunken adults started to call to me from afar to play with boy toys. Because playing with over-muscled action figures in tight colorful suits was sure to make me more manly.
Later, the adults started doing whatever adults did when they were drunk in the early 90’s: make their kids watch Mrs. Doubtfire for the millionth time while they start an ultimate dance party with large shape decorations, denim outfits, and a giant bowl of spiked Surge.
After Mrs. Doubtfire, my siblings and I went to bed, staring out the window in our grandmother’s spare room, because we were sure that the red blinking light in the distance was not a guide for nighttime fliers, but Rudolph having trouble keeping a steady beam going.
|Because on Christmas, kids will believe ANYTHING.|
We woke up the next morning and forced our relatives out of bed for our pure unadulterated greedy present-less selves. Everyone but our uncle had found a way out of their bedazzled denim suits and, nursing their hangovers, grudgingly joined us in front of the tree.
I started off opening everything I had asked for and then some. We actually have this part on home video, and I would do anything to find a way to throw that video up here for you but I can’t, so I’m going to draw you pretty much the whole thing.
I got really excited when my Aunt and Uncle gave me this giant heavy box. And I mean, this box was my height and half of my scrawny 63 pound weight.
Apparently, no one had updated my relatives that I’d rather be watching Jungle Book for the millionth time than watch an iota of sports. What was an obviously expensive gift (it was full football gear, pads, helmet, jersey, the works, all with personalized BARGER printed on everything) fell on deaf ears, because it was the most boring gift I’d received that morning.
On the tape, my mom is watching this unravel and gives a vain attempt to sway my interest back to the gift. I say something way beyond my years like, “no momma, that holds nothing of interest to me and my life,” and I start hugging my brand new stuffed dog. Then she laughed nervously and looks at the camera and shrugs.
My family was really surprised when I came out of the closet.