Nothing, and I mean nothing, makes you feel older than receiving a porcelain Christmas set from Santa. Last year, Matt and I were down to our final present. It was heavy, fairly large, and had a nondescript shape. It could’ve been any number of things that we wanted. But it wasn’t. Instead, it was a gleaming white porcelain set of figurines—a Santa, a couple of kids, a fireplace—you get the picture. Matt and I looked at each other. We certainly weren’t old enough to receive such a present. Porcelain figurines were for our parents—or better yet, our parents’ parents—not a few young city kids. Were we really that old? I looked up, and “Santa” (Matt’s mom) was beaming and perhaps sniffling a bit. “You can pass it on to your kids. You know?”
“Yeah…”
On the drive home, I nicknamed our gift “The White Supremacist Christmas” because it was just so white. This year, we gave it a more appropriate name, “The White Imperialist Christmas,” as there are no skinheads in the set.
This entire year, that gift has left me in a state of shock. I am suddenly a grownup, a person old enough to receive Christmas figurines as gifts. This was horrible. It took an entire year to warm up to that gift, but now I have, and it looks great in our bay window. I still haven’t come to terms with that age issue though. Santa, this year, please, please buy me some wild and irresponsible gifts.
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