There's nothing as awful as Secret Santa. Bear with me.
In its Platonic Ideal Form, Secret Santa is about getting to know one's coworkers. One sets up secretive meet-cutes. One goes on covert fact-finding missions. It's all a bit like "She Loves Me": That weirdly nosy Kindergarten teacher was in fact my stealthy mask-wearing friend! My angel in disguise!
But here's how Secret Santa actually works, in 2018. You use a system called "Elfster." Elfster is an "app." On this app, people actually list their material wants--brands, costs, links specified. So, if you're assigned to someone, you needn't make any actual effort to get to know that person; you just shop from a pre-made list. Whatever the client has ordered.
Even in the absence of Elfster, Secret Santa rarely works the way it's meant to work. What happens is: You make a sincere resolution to get to know your colleague, then you forget to do the work and just end up buying useless shit from CVS. You're hemorrhaging cash for items that your recipient almost certainly does not want. Six dollars and change for that Hershey's mug--because, of course, a man in his forties, a father of four with a teacher's salary, almost definitely is in need of a cheap-looking Hershey's mug.
Maybe you get a second (or, really, a first) wind just before the final gift exchange. You email friends of your colleague, expecting, I guess, that they will hand you some brilliant idea that requires no more legwork than a two-minute walk across the street. A hand-crafted gift, under twenty-five dollars, that also--miraculously!--can be purchased at Starbucks, or IFC, or Washington Square Park, or, again, CVS.
And what is the response to your email?
"Oh, Sam? Sam has four kids. I'm sure he'd love a gift card from Amazon."
And your soul dies. Something just as regrettable as "Elfster": the inevitable gift card from Amazon. So then, instead of actual gift-giving, you have something like prostitution. You are handing over cash, basically, to a stranger, who has remained a stranger, despite some fancy charade-playing and song-and-dancing and let's-say-this-actually-isn't-what-it-is-though-clearly-it-really-IS-what-it-is.
I've noticed something in my new workplace. There are a few people who proudly abstain. You ask, Are you doing Secret Santa? And these people say no. And they do NOT BACK DOWN. They do not apologize. They do not offer a reason. They simply answer your question, which, maybe, was a rude question, in the first place, a form of bullying recognizable to anyone who has a functioning brain and reasonably dependable sensory organs.
I'm writing this, in the spirit of Montaigne, or something like that spirit, to make an argument. And my argument is this: Say NO next year. Say: Let's take all that useless Hershey's-mug cash and spend it on obligatory drinks. Mandatory beers on Dec. 21st. No "Test Your Movie Trivia Knowledge!" card sets (which I never wanted, and never indicated that I wanted; thanks, Secret Santa...) No more Glade candles (pine-scented!) No more tacky ornaments from Duane Reade. Just beer. Beer, beer, beer. Forever and always.
As I type, the thrill of naughtiness races through my veins. Give it a try.
And F**K SECRET SANTA.
I remain, as always,
Your Friendly Neighborhood Scrooge
In its Platonic Ideal Form, Secret Santa is about getting to know one's coworkers. One sets up secretive meet-cutes. One goes on covert fact-finding missions. It's all a bit like "She Loves Me": That weirdly nosy Kindergarten teacher was in fact my stealthy mask-wearing friend! My angel in disguise!
But here's how Secret Santa actually works, in 2018. You use a system called "Elfster." Elfster is an "app." On this app, people actually list their material wants--brands, costs, links specified. So, if you're assigned to someone, you needn't make any actual effort to get to know that person; you just shop from a pre-made list. Whatever the client has ordered.
Even in the absence of Elfster, Secret Santa rarely works the way it's meant to work. What happens is: You make a sincere resolution to get to know your colleague, then you forget to do the work and just end up buying useless shit from CVS. You're hemorrhaging cash for items that your recipient almost certainly does not want. Six dollars and change for that Hershey's mug--because, of course, a man in his forties, a father of four with a teacher's salary, almost definitely is in need of a cheap-looking Hershey's mug.
Maybe you get a second (or, really, a first) wind just before the final gift exchange. You email friends of your colleague, expecting, I guess, that they will hand you some brilliant idea that requires no more legwork than a two-minute walk across the street. A hand-crafted gift, under twenty-five dollars, that also--miraculously!--can be purchased at Starbucks, or IFC, or Washington Square Park, or, again, CVS.
And what is the response to your email?
"Oh, Sam? Sam has four kids. I'm sure he'd love a gift card from Amazon."
And your soul dies. Something just as regrettable as "Elfster": the inevitable gift card from Amazon. So then, instead of actual gift-giving, you have something like prostitution. You are handing over cash, basically, to a stranger, who has remained a stranger, despite some fancy charade-playing and song-and-dancing and let's-say-this-actually-isn't-what-it-is-though-clearly-it-really-IS-what-it-is.
I've noticed something in my new workplace. There are a few people who proudly abstain. You ask, Are you doing Secret Santa? And these people say no. And they do NOT BACK DOWN. They do not apologize. They do not offer a reason. They simply answer your question, which, maybe, was a rude question, in the first place, a form of bullying recognizable to anyone who has a functioning brain and reasonably dependable sensory organs.
I'm writing this, in the spirit of Montaigne, or something like that spirit, to make an argument. And my argument is this: Say NO next year. Say: Let's take all that useless Hershey's-mug cash and spend it on obligatory drinks. Mandatory beers on Dec. 21st. No "Test Your Movie Trivia Knowledge!" card sets (which I never wanted, and never indicated that I wanted; thanks, Secret Santa...) No more Glade candles (pine-scented!) No more tacky ornaments from Duane Reade. Just beer. Beer, beer, beer. Forever and always.
As I type, the thrill of naughtiness races through my veins. Give it a try.
And F**K SECRET SANTA.
I remain, as always,
Your Friendly Neighborhood Scrooge
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