I feel a little silly writing you. Recently, I wrote a column about how when I was a boy I always wanted you to bring me a cowboy hat. A silver-belly colored Stetson. A few days later, one showed up on my porch from an anonymous person. I almost couldn’t believe it.
I know it was you, Santa.
If only I would have had the foresight to write a column about a summerhouse on the beach with a four-car garage instead.
No. I’m only kidding. Please realize that I am only making a joke, Santa. A three-car garage would be more than plenty.
Anyway, the words “thank you” don’t even begin to cover how I feel. The hat fits perfectly, and I have been wearing it for the last three days. I even wore the hat—this is true—to the grocery store. I almost never wear hats indoors, but I did yesterday.
The cashier referred to me as “Tex.” I asked her to kindly call me “Roy” instead.
She said, “Who’s Roy?”
“Wait, does he sing that
song about the Gambler?”
You have to worry about our nation’s youth.
But the truth is I feel so silly, Santa. I didn’t NEED a hat. There are so many other important things happening in the world. Things that are WAY more pressing than my headwear. I feel so ridiculously selfish wearing this beautiful thing.
When I was a boy, I asked you for a hat like this every single year and I never got one. And I was okay with that. Because I knew you had bigger fish to fry. I understood this.
Once, my friend Billy explained it all to me when I was nine. He said that you only had a certain amount of space in your sleigh and you had to pack small gifts. A hat just wasn’t practical. And you’re practical guy.
Looking back, this…