Wandering around blindly in the cold at lunch your hands are freezing and the coat you’re wearing is two inches shorter than your suit coat underneath making you feel like a dork, suddenly there it is, the phrase Secret Santa. What does it mean? Is Life throwing you a bone, an idea for a twisted little story?
Yes.
Is it pointing you towards an interesting blog that you find when you google the phrase?
Yes.
But it’s also pointing you towards your own inner Secret Santa; the being who knows what you really want.
Do you want to meet him? The idea strikes you as funny at first, whimsical, or dopey, as dopey as the phrase. Until you recall where Santa comes from: that old Nordic guy who lives in the ice.
Jesus, google it yourself, I can’t be arsed. I’m not supposed to be reading this week.
Secret Santa was just the trigger, the phrase it took to get you thinking about him. He has no name.
Close your eyes. It’s cold and you’ve been traveling a long time to see him. Do you even want to? Would you rather turn around?
He knows you.
What’s he look like to you? Gandalf? That guardian of the bridge in Monty Python and the Holy Grail only scarier? A biker? He stands there in the storm and you can go no further until you deal with him.
He knows what you don’t.
That’s the gift in his bag.
In German, Gift means poison
It will cost you everything.
This is where I’d normally start to make fun of this, but I’ll pass.
That’s a normal reaction to Secret Santa. The first thing I said to him when I saw him was, “hey motherfucker.”
In Swedish, ‘gift’ also means ‘poison’, but also ‘married’.
in french, ‘poisson’ means ‘fish’.