The Edge of the Abyss

The Edge of the Abyss
Depression is not a sign of weakness

Sunday, December 20, 2015

DEAR SANTA: ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS THE IMPOSSIBLE


Dear Santa:
Greetings, my friend in red. Hope this missive finds you and yours in fine form. With all this talk of global warming, I worry that Donner and Blitzen are applying Coppertone while Dasher and Dancer compete to craft the perfect cannonball in the deep end. (If you’re a regular viewer of “Fox and Friends,” then please accept my apology. I don’t intend to offend.)
It’s true I haven’t written since last year and it seems I reach out only when I want something, but I imagine that’s simply business as usual in your line of work. So, let me get straight to the point: I’m only asking for one thing this year, but it’s a doozy. (Yes, Kris, you’re probably thinking “Why can’t she be content with another Chia Pet?” But until they come up with the Chia Cthulhu, please no more ceramic weed farms.)
I’ve decided to go for broke this year. My first thought was to ask for a shopping spree at a Pucci boutique. A new wardrobe of gorgeous abstract prints and fine fabrics would be just the ticket for a vacation at a Venetian villa. (You could throw that in, too, right?) But that seemed a little too pedestrian.
Then I considered asking you for a week at the Four Seasons Bora Bora, an all-expenses paid, once-in-a lifetime trip with my significant other and 10 of my dearest friends. Each of us could have our own villa over the turquoise waters. How divine! Then I imagined running into Justin Bieber au natural and I felt as queasy as the time I competed in that corn dog eating contest. Ick.
Then I thought: wouldn’t it be heavenly to rent out the Hollywood Bowl and have Kate Bush perform all her tracks from “Hounds of Love” and “The Dreaming”? The audience would consist of just me, my husband and our two kitties sitting in La-Z-Boy recliners on the stage right next to Her Royal Kateness. Oh, and Weird Al Yankovik could be the opening act!
But then I thought, no, I’m going to swing for the fences this Christmas. I’m going to ask for something so spectacular, so marvelous, so blow-the-doors-off incredible that my friends will be simply chartreuse with envy.
That’s right, Santa: I want a ride with Uber.
But wait, please, before you crumple up my letter and use it to wipe the reindeer doo-doo off your boots; please just hear me out! If Uber – or Lyft or any smart phone-booked ride service – can provide rides to the non-disabled, they can do it for wheelchair users, right?
It’s an eleventy-bajillion dollar business, so surely they can have drivers in every major market with wheelchair-lift vans, can’t they? These titans of industry can be convinced that disenfranchising an entire segment of society is not just illegal but morally wrong?
Please, Santa, tell me I’ll someday be able to book a ride on Uber with the same ease and speed as anyone else!
Ok, I’ll settle for a ride in your sleigh. Sure beats seeing the Biebs nekkid.      

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