Growing up, I always peeked at my Christmas presents. There was no place my mother could hide them I couldn’t find them. Yes, I even had a kit for dealing with already wrapped gifts that included a purloined razor blade and invisible tape.
I outgrew that, but I still get very antsy about wanting to know what’s going under the tree for me. Nobody knows this more than my husband, who has witnessed seventeen years of holiday anticipation on my part. Yesterday, they went shopping for my Christmas presents and they brought the bags straight into the train room when they got home. I had to run to the grocery store after the Patriots game, so I left the wrapping stuff out so they could wrap what they’d bought. He napped on the couch, instead.
Right now, on the other side of the wall, are my Christmas gifts. Unwrapped. Just begging to be peeked at. I have spent the last hour hyper-aware of the fact I’m alone in the house for the next five hours with my presents.
To make matters worse, there are still little nitpicky things from the remodel that need to be done and a doorknob on the train room door is one of them—the door directly behind my office chair. See it? It’s like a little peephole.
I haven’t looked. I’m going to try my damndest to peek.
Oh, but the temptation…it hurts.