By Kathy Miele
I was hunched over the coffee table with my address book in front of me, frantically scribbling names and addresses on envelopes, when Steven walked into the room.
“What are you up to?” he asked.
“The holiday cards,” I grumbled.
“You don’t seem to be enjoying doing them,” he said as he sat down next to me.
“I’m not,” I complained. “I’m already late getting them out! I forgot to make copies of all the different pictures I wanted to tuck into certain people’s cards, I don’t have the energy or brain power to write a personalized note in each of the cards, like I was hoping to and …” I began shaking the pen furiously seeing if any more ink would come out before I had to search for another one. “This is the second pen I’ve used that’s run out of ink!”
Steven smiled as he reached for the remote for the television. “No one says you have to send them out this year.”
“Of course I have to send them out!” I argued. “I’ve had these cards sitting on my desk for the past two months!”
“Do you really think anyone’s going to notice if you miss this one year?” Steven asked as he adjusted the pillow behind his head.
“I’ve already gotten a call!” I reached over and pulled out another pen out from the drawer of the side table.
“Someone called you to say they haven’t gotten a card from you yet?” Steven looked confused.
“My sister called me yesterday to tell me that I’m not the first holiday card she’s gotten this year!” I scribbled on the back of one of the misaddressed envelopes to make sure the new pen was working. “Somebody beat me!”
“So you’re not her first card, who cares?”
“I don’t think you understand, Steven. I care! I’ve been her first card for the past six years. It’s my small claim to fame that I’m not real happy about losing!”
“So maybe you’ll be the first card for somebody else,” he said.
“Why do you think I’m working so hard to get them out now?” I said as I hunched over the coffee table and began addressing envelopes again. “If I hurry, I still have a chance to be the first one for my other sister!”
I stopped for a moment and began shaking my writing hand. “I think my fingers are beginning to cramp,” I whined.
Steven rubbed the back of my neck. “As long as you’re having fun,” He said.
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