There’s so much to love about Christmas: The movies (well, a few of them), the music (well, some of it), the TV specials (well, “The Grinch” and “A Charlie Brown Christmas”), the lights, the decorations, the cards, the food, the day off from work, nun bowling, the ECHD and all that business with the Baby Jesus.
But best of all, of course, is the presents. Presents, presents, presents. Who doesn’t love a good present? Even a lousy present is better than nothing. Sure, I’m old enough and have my own money — I can buy my own stuff. I usually do. But getting stuff, and saving money in the process, is hard to beat.
Giving gifts is also pretty awesome. It feels good to give something to someone and see that look of genuine joy when they open it. Good gift giving, like everything else in this world, is a talent. Giving the perfect gift means knowing the recipient and studying them and listening and paying attention when they don’t think you’re paying attention. It’s hard work.
For example, this year I came home one afternoon and there was a large package on the front porch from JC Penney.
“Did you order anything from JC Penney?” I asked The Wife.
“No. Did you?”
“Do I look like someone who shops at JC Penney?”
“No, I don’t believe they sell comic books.”
I bring the package inside and notice it’s squishy. Why would someone send me something squishy? There was nothing squishy in the RROY REPORT Holiday Gift Guide. I squish it some more. It feels like a pillow.
I rip open the package and sure enough, it was a pillow. Why would someone send me a pillow? I have a pillow. In fact, there are about 2 dozen pillows on my bed. Most of them get thrown on the floor every night because no one sleeps with 2 dozen pillows. Why do women feel the need to decorate beds with lots of pillows? They just take up space and while I get that they’re supposed to be decorative, no one’s going to see them. You generally don’t invite guests into the bedroom. It’s just an odd daily ritual — toss the pillows on the floor at night, put them back on the bed in the morning. I don’t understand.
I check out the packaging on the pillow: Royal Velvet Essential Down Pillow. Fill: White Duck Down.
Someone bought me a feather pillow? And then it all falls into place.
Back in June my beloved feather pillow got a tear in it and I had to throw it away. As is always the case when I lose a beloved inanimate object, I wrote a poem in its honor. I published that poem on June 12 here at the Report (you can look it up in the archives). Someone (obviously Jan) read that poem six months ago and remembered it and sent me a feather pillow to make up for my lost love.
And that, Virginia, is the true meaning of Christmas. Have a merry one.