Sign #4
Standing in the same line for more than 35 minutes with no evidence of progress. There’s usually anywhere between four and 20 people ahead of you. One is a mother with no less than three children, all of whom have never seen aisle ropes before, and the second is the woman at the counter who needs to speak with the manager. The third person is in the wrong line and the fourth is your neighbor.
“Well hey there! How’s your holiday shopping coming along? Wow! I take it your friends like smoothies!”
Cheap move, poking fun at my blenders.
“Yeah, I’m just getting the last of my lights,” he tells me. “See, we’ve got this whole outside theme of ... reindeer … frost ….”
I caught only single words from this point on. I was busy wishing I had a pencil to write down Sign #5: Badly timed Holiday Conversations.
“… see, so it all revolves around Rudolph. When they hit the doorbell the whole thing will light up and queue Rudolph, which will simultaneously start the music and the snow. Of course, we won’t need the fake snow if there’s real snow but judging from the weather report we’re going to need snow, so I’ll get extra just in case, I wouldn’t want to run short on snow.”
“What if someone steals Rudolph and the whole thing turns into one big disaster?”
“What?”
“Nothing. Happy Holidays Jim.”
Sign #6: Overweight, pretentious old men spreading cheer the American way.
(Inquiring as to your hopes and dreams with no actual intention of fulfillment.) I mean really, what sort of precedent does this set? Yes, tell Santa what you want for Christmas. A pony, a swing set, a brand new X-box. Detail your deepest dreams and desires. But just remember -- years from now -- in expensive therapy that without a doubt costs more than a pony, a swing set, and an X-box combined: Santa Clause is the root of your trust issues, your inability to be vulnerable and your lack of self worth. Because after all, if Santa Clause knows I’m not worth an X-box, I certainly don’t deserve a promotion.
So there you have it. The six signs in all their glory. Thanksgiving has past, my credit cards are maxed, and fat men in silly red suits everywhere are influencing tomorrow’s youth.
But it is Christmas. And I (probably) wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Precocious entrepreneur, workaholic and a rabid perfectionist Crystal Starlight knows a thing or two about getting ahead at a young age. Email her at [email protected]