Oh boy.
It’s Christmas morning, and amidst the thick haze of food already cooking for lunch and the soothing laughter of our children enjoying their new toys, my wife approaches me with a small, square package. I hadn’t seen this under the tree. “That’s your last one,” she says. I instinctively go to shake it – she knows me well enough to catch my wrist. “Don’t do that!” she interjects. Clearly this is an item of some delicacy.
I unwrap it carefully, and as I slip the box free of its decorative coat, I am filled with both giddy elation and a crushing sense of shame: Shame at the sheer averageness of the gifts I have offered her this year compared to the magnificence I hold in my hands; elated, because said magnificence is a boxed, Japanese copy of Mario’s Tennis for the Virtual Boy with manual inside. It’s a Christmas miracle. Eat your heart out, Dickens.
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