Well it's that time of year. Yes the fat man will soon be squeezing his wobbly gut down a chimney near you soon. Well, if you haven't been too naughty that is.
I've always been a bit of a bah humbug kind of girl when it comes to Christmas. I still am to a certain extent, but I've discovered over time, that Christmas actually appeals to my perverse sense of humor. So, as a treat for myself, and hopefully you, I'm going to fester all over my blog for the next two weeks. To start off with though, I've decided I should give you a bit of an idea about where my bad Christmas attitude started. In case you haven't guessed, this is where I blame my family for everything...oh, and Santa of course.
As a child, I remember being terrified of sitting on Santa's knee. Yes I could sprout the argument of, it's the one time of year your parents actually encourage you to talk to a stranger who gives you lollies, but that's not what this post is about. Besides, I like it when men give me sweets and I've always found strangers interesting.
To give you an idea of my memories of Santa I've decided to show you a few pictures. Yes, me as a child with with the old fat pervert himself. I'm not the keeper of the photo archives in the Graham family, but I do have a few of the more terrifying memories captured on celluloid (I know I'm old.)
So here we go, my bah humbug attitude toward Christmas- the formative years.
1965: The chill out year
At three months old I obviously didn't give a shit
who's lap I sat on. Not that I'm looking at the old
jerk, but still, when you're three months old you're
still learning to focus.
1966: The terror begins
By the time I was 15mths old, I no longer had issues with focus. I could see that red and white monster and I wanted nothing to do with him. In order to stop me crying and actually get me anywhere near the old fool, some genius came up with the idea of sitting me on a bike. You'll all be happy to know I recovered from the conclusion I got when I toppled off the damn thing. However, I don't think my brother ever recovered from the death grip Santa had on his arm.
Ah, 2yrs 3mths and the brain kicks in. Okay, so I'll sit on his lap and just try to ignore him. I can't smile, but I can bite my bottom lip to stop from screaming as old man Santa whispers encouraging nothings in my ear. If he'd just shut up I'd be able to get to my happy place. Now say the mantra you thought up...I'm not here, I'm not here, I'm not here.
By the time I reached four years of age, fear was starting to get old. I devised a new plan for the jolly fat man and the happy snap elf with the camera. Be nice, get the lolly and then make your parents pay. Yes, I'm still nervous and biting the bottom lip, but there's vengeance in those eyes. Just wait, I might not get you back right away but when I'm a teenager, I'll be your worse nightmare. My memory is long...you'll see.
Yes, by the time I was seven years old, I'd truly had enough. Enough of the frilly dresses, enough of the bribes and threats, enough of sweaty old men, in red velvet suits, with white nylon beards. No more biting the lip, no more tears. Just that are-we-done look that persisted in pictures throughout my childhood and into my teen years.
I think, for a seven year old, I did bored pretty well. Of course I'm perfected it by the time I was a teenager. And for those of you wondering if 4 year old Jan got her plotted revenge. Of course she did. I was a horrible teenager. *evil grin and wicked laugh*