When I got exactly what I wanted.

At this time of the year, while we are busy being thankful for what we have, whining for what we want, and rolling our eyes at our crazy families, I like to reflect on Christmases past and the lessons I've learned from them.

Picture it; it was 1989.

Big hair was calming down but the bangs were staying high. Girls' foreheads all over the Western world were being burned on curling irons. Neon colours were still staking their claim on at least 30% of "fashionable" wardrobes, mostly thanks to the likes of Vuarnet logos. No one in my class even knew who Vuarnet was, but we still had to own at least one thing from that brand (even if it was from the Tiger brand store which meant it had a slight imperfection that made its price 60% cheaper). I went there a lot with my mother.

Seriously, who the fuck is Vuarnet? I laugh now that I know . . . 23 years later.
I detest skiing!

Anyway, I was then at the stage that I didn't need toys anymore for Christmas.
I was mature.
I was sophisticated.
I was fashion forward.
I was 11.

All I wanted was this utterly amazing and outrageous winter jacket I had seen on a previous shopping excursion with my mother. I begged and pleaded for this jacket. It would be a statement piece! To channel my inner Ferris Bueller, "It was so choice." And also? It was over $100. My mother had flat out said no. Even at 11, I realized that that was a lot for a jacket, particularly to be worn for someone of my age but all rational thought had escaped me. I was fixated on that jacket and I needed to have it.

I played dirty.

Being the only child of a deceased only child had given me a particular advantage — I was spoiled as hell by my grandparents. Whenever my mother noticed me using my "powers", she'd rip into me like an enraged mama tiger, so I had to learn to be subtle and crafty with suggestions. Except for this jacket. I was ready to accept the heat as long as I could feel that cool textured nylon/polyester blend against my neck.

The first chance I got, I took my grandmother shopping and got her to buy it for me. I remember the adrenaline pumping through my veins as my grandmother handed the shop clerk her credit card. I could hear my heart thumping in my ears; I knew it was wrong but I never once hesitated.

Needless to say that on Christmas morning, when I unwrapped my present from my grandparents, while busy expressing my phony expression of surprise, I glanced at my mother; I could tell I was screwed. She was biting the inside of her lip like she did whenever she was utterly furious with me. I avoided her for most of the day.

The next day, she didn't yell or scream or do much of anything. She just walked passed me while she was cleaning and passively but coldly said, "I am disgusted with you." It was the first time since my whole obsession had begun that my actions really became apparent to me. Ugh.

The worst part was when I wore my new "spoils of war" to school. It really was a statement piece alright. I mean, I was always one of those that enjoyed standing out a little bit . . . but . . . not like a sore thumb. This jacket was a sore thumb.

I instantly hated it — more than I think I've ever hated a single item of clothing, ever.

But I had to wear it. All. Fucking. Winter.

And the year after as well.

T'was a worthy punishment.

Not the exact same jacket but pretty fucking close.

Seriously.

The lesson I learned from that year? Well, I guess it's pretty obvious. Be careful of what you think you want or must have at all costs — it might not be worth who you step on to get it.

A lot like fame, I would surmise.


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