What I REALLY Want For Christmas

Gianni Cumbo
Gianni Cumbo

Dear Santa,

Now that I’m a grown-ass lady, I don’t write letters to you anymore. I pretty much just ask for money for flights to see my friends in other cities and we know who is bankrolling that – Mom. HOWEVER, there are a few dreams I’d love to see realized. Santa, if you’re real and that magic power of yours is legit, can you make these things happen? Pretty please. I’ll be SO good next year, I won’t even drink Jameson.

Here’s what I REALLY want for Christmas:

My bangs to grow out. Why did I cut bangs? And then, once they were growing satisfactorily, why did I trim them back again? I have wavy hair and it’s a bitch to style, so what on earth was I smoking that Sunday I decided I needed bangs again? When it’s wet, I have to blow them dry! And they never sit right. They’re cute when a real hairstylist does them, but when I do it they always look just a little crooked. God dammit. Boredom bangs are the stupidest decision one can make and I’ve cut them like four times, so clearly I never learn. I always go back to things that hurt me, like bangs. I am taking a bunch of vitamins hoping it’ll help them grow faster so they can be gone for good.

A cashmere sweater that doesn’t pill. Honestly, this is impossible. If I’m gonna spend $100+ on a sweater, it better not fucking pill! I’m looking at you, J Crew. I’ve acquired a collection of cashmere and the only one that hasn’t pilled is the Donna Karan (not that crappy DKNY stuff, real Donna Karan) I found for $20 at a consignment shop. Moths ate it. Story of my life.

A boyfriend. Not just any boyfriend, Santa. I want a boyfriend who will drive me 15 miles to a specific grocery store so I can buy my favorite brand of white cheddar popcorn, then not be disgusted when I eat the whole bag in one sitting. I want a boyfriend who knows that I like to watch “The Wizard of Oz” when I’m sick and that Time Life music infomercials are my favorite thing to watch on TV. This means he better be down with watching “The Golden Age of Country” in its entirety once or twice a week. Said boyfriend will also like to cook, because I’m not into that. He will sit by me in the bathroom while I hold court in a bubble bath and tell me long, inventive stories. With voices. I’ll make it up to him with my sparkling charm and brilliant conversation…

A travel coffee mug. Every time I buy one of these, I either leave it at work for weeks and it starts to grow mold or it breaks in some minute way, like the lid cracks or decides to stop staying firmly closed. I never notice the break and when I go to take a sip, it spills down my shirt and all over my outfit. THIS NEVER FAILS. I want a travel mug that will fill itself, never break and then teleport back to my house when I’m done with it. Then I won’t have a coffee mug rattling around my car like I do right now. I don’t know why I’m too lazy to carry it the ten feet from my car to my door, but I am. It would be extra-awesome if said coffee mug came with a neverending Starbucks gift card, but I’m probably reaching for the stars there, right?

Clear skin. I am 26 years old, Santa. Can you please put some magic gadget under my tree that will erase all my scars, clear up any activity and prevent it from ever coming back again? Need I repeat that I am 26. I should not have zits.

Underwear that actually don’t show under my tight-ass pencil skirts. I’ve tried them all: Hanky Panky, Commando, Victoria’s Secret … nope, they all show. “Duh, Kara, just don’t wear underwear!” You say. Well, that’s not really my thing. I like underwear. I don’t feel comfortable without it unless circumstances demand it. But with all the advances of modern technology, isn’t there some way you scientists can make like, practically invisible underwear?

I’m not asking for a miracle, Santa. Except maybe with that boyfriend one.Thought Catalog Logo Mark

About the author

Kara Nesvig

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