But after receiving more of them this year than in any year previously, I can barely contain my frustration.
Almost invariably they come from those I don't know very well - Those I know through someone else or from some long-ago stage of my life. Stages so removed and distant that I can barely maintain an emotional connection with my own memories of those times let alone a sentimental tethering to the peripheral inhabitants on the edges of them.
Look, If we know each other, then I have likely already heard that your eldest was married in June, your mother-in-law loves her new room at the assisted-living facility and your 15-year old Beagle named Spud was put to sleep at the benevolent hand of your vet. And if we have a sincere bond between us but one that fate or logistics prevents from updating more than once a year, I welcome your news.
Conversely, if I don't know you well enough to have heard those things, why would you believe that it matters?
Once upon a time, when it was still only possible to gush in pen and ink, those revelations would have meant something. Why? Because they would have been written by hand in each and every card. Effort and care would have backed whatever favorably superficial news you felt compelled to share lending to it an air of intimacy and elevating its importance.
I would have understood that whatever your news, it must have been important enough to you that you took the time to form each letter within every word just to spell it out for me. I would have been touched by that and likely responded to it in my return Christmas greeting.
However, if you and I are casual acquaintances, I don't really care to receive that newsy Xerox informing me of your trip to Fiji with your dentist and his wife in February or how many hours it took on the boat before you saw land. Why would I?
I'm not even sure why I am on your Christmas card list in the first place, unless it is because you are suffering from a bout of insecurity or existential angst and feel it necessary to proclaim the most lustrous highlights of your existence to as many people as you feel might be impressed by them.
Seriously.
And while I am truly sorry that your health has been suffering, is my knowledge of this information really going to deepen our connection? I now know more about the state of your colon, gastrointestinal blockages and cholesterol levels than I do the state of your mind.
If we are not close friends, then the odds are that I don't know your children well either - If at all. So, why would I need to be told which colleges they were accepted into or how many ski trips they took to Telluride since October or the names of your grandchildren replete with an additional litany of all their activities and accomplishments in the past calendar year?
Honestly, what would make anyone believe that a detailed accounting of all the beaches and shops you visited on that snorkeling trip to Cabo would be of any interest whatsoever to someone who knows so little of you that they are not even sure how to spell your last name?
I'm sorry. I am simply not buying the saccharine theory that this is a legitimate display of friendship; of saying, "I care."
How is your telling me about that autumn camping trip through Yellowstone, the cruise to the Caribbean or your three-week tour of the vineyards in Southern France a sign that you care for anyone or anything other than letting as many people as possible know you have time on your hands and money to spare?
If you don't care enough to share with me who you are, why do you want me to know so much about what you do?
And for those who can find nothing more substantial to chronicle than a blithe list of acquisitions, accomplishments and assets, have you ever considered how these polished manifestoes to everything bright and shiny might impact a recipient whose current state is not so blessed? Someone who has perhaps lost a loved one, a home, a job, is battling a serious illness or depression?
Do you really care for those poor sods on your Christmas card list or do you simply want to make sure they know that your gig is better than theirs?
Try as I might, I can't help believing that this insipid display of unmitigated and superficial preening is not for our benefit but for yours, and it makes me feel like little more than a cog in the wheel of your grasping self-importance.
Do me a favor. Take me off of your list.
Or, if you are really sincere in wanting to let me know that you are thinking of me, just sign your name with love.
And give me a call sometime.
