When did it become acceptable to shove our news down the throats of our casual acquaintances and call it "friendship?"
By Susan Creamer Joy - Wednesday 30 Nov 2011
I promised myself I would not let this happen. I told myself last year that when the 2011 Christmas cards come filtering in that I would NOT be negatively overcome by the seemingly mandatory inclusion of the increasingly popular mass holiday letter.
However, 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 barely know—those ghostly acquaintances I know only through a third-party filter or from some long-ago stage of my life—a stage so distant and remote that I can barely maintain an emotional connection with my own memories of that time let alone a sentimental tether to the inhabitants on the periphery of those now foggy days.
Look, if we really 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 hands 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, then I sincerely welcome your news. I really do.
Conversely, if I don’t know you well enough to have heard those things, why would you believe that I need to know them now?
Once upon a time, when it was possible to gush only in pen and ink, those revelations coming from even a casual acquaintance 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 news you felt compelled to share lending to it an air of intimacy, therefore, 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 carefully form every letter within each word. I would have been touched by that and by the fact that you thought enough of our relationship that you made the effort to communicate these things to me, and I likely would have responded to it in an equally personable way in my return Christmas greeting.
However, if you and I have such a cursory connection that no effort has ever been made to reinforce it at any time over the years, why would you think I’d be interested in receiving one of the 137 computer-generated, copies of your newsy holiday letter supplying me with the generic highlights of your trip to Fiji with your dentist and his wife in February and how many varieties of underwater sea life you captured on your new digital camera while snorkeling?
I’m not even sure why I am on your Christmas card list in the first place, unless it is because you are plagued by 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, than 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 recounting of all the beaches and shops you visited on that get-away-trip to Cabo would be of any interest whatsoever to someone who has such a scant connection with you that they are not even certain 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, your newly renovated kitchen and bath, the purchase of that vacation home on The Cape 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 have and what you do?
As 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 manifestos 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 aggrandizing display of unmitigated and superficial preening is not for my benefit but for yours, and my inclusion makes me feel like little more than a cog in the wheel of your grasping self-importance.
Please, do me a favor? Take me off of your list next year.
On the other hand, if you are really sincere in wanting to let me know that you are thinking of me, just send me a card and sign your name with love.
And maybe give me a call sometime.
However, 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 barely know—those ghostly acquaintances I know only through a third-party filter or from some long-ago stage of my life—a stage so distant and remote that I can barely maintain an emotional connection with my own memories of that time let alone a sentimental tether to the inhabitants on the periphery of those now foggy days.
Look, if we really 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 hands 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, then I sincerely welcome your news. I really do.
Conversely, if I don’t know you well enough to have heard those things, why would you believe that I need to know them now?
Once upon a time, when it was possible to gush only in pen and ink, those revelations coming from even a casual acquaintance 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 news you felt compelled to share lending to it an air of intimacy, therefore, 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 carefully form every letter within each word. I would have been touched by that and by the fact that you thought enough of our relationship that you made the effort to communicate these things to me, and I likely would have responded to it in an equally personable way in my return Christmas greeting.
However, if you and I have such a cursory connection that no effort has ever been made to reinforce it at any time over the years, why would you think I’d be interested in receiving one of the 137 computer-generated, copies of your newsy holiday letter supplying me with the generic highlights of your trip to Fiji with your dentist and his wife in February and how many varieties of underwater sea life you captured on your new digital camera while snorkeling?
I’m not even sure why I am on your Christmas card list in the first place, unless it is because you are plagued by 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, than 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 recounting of all the beaches and shops you visited on that get-away-trip to Cabo would be of any interest whatsoever to someone who has such a scant connection with you that they are not even certain 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, your newly renovated kitchen and bath, the purchase of that vacation home on The Cape 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 have and what you do?
As 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 manifestos 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 aggrandizing display of unmitigated and superficial preening is not for my benefit but for yours, and my inclusion makes me feel like little more than a cog in the wheel of your grasping self-importance.
Please, do me a favor? Take me off of your list next year.
On the other hand, if you are really sincere in wanting to let me know that you are thinking of me, just send me a card and sign your name with love.
And maybe give me a call sometime.