12/25/2025
Dear Reader,
I do not say this to alarm you—Heaven forbid we add distress to a world already jingling itself to pieces—but it has come to my attention that you have done what so many good souls do every December:
You have meant to be ready.
You have intended to be thoughtful.
You have planned to remember everyone with that calm, benevolent competence we all admire in other people.
And yet here you are, at a late hour, with Christmas so close you can feel its breath on your neck, and a small, private voice saying:
“Oh no.”
Reader, take heart.
For it is a truth not written in any ledger, but known in every household: the final hours of Christmas Eve are thick with miracles—some of them involving nothing more supernatural than Wi‑Fi and a credit card.
And so we begin, as all good cautionary tales do, with a man (or woman) awake at an indecent hour, in a state of spiritual undress—possibly literal.
The house is still. The world is asleep. The only sound is the frantic scroll of a thumb and the dull, accusing glow of a screen.
When, suddenly—
A presence.
Not a knock at the door. Not a bell. Not even the clatter of chains (though those have their place).
No: a quiet, chilling revelation:
That's the Rub is closed.
This is the first Ghost—the Ghost of Closed Doors and Locked Hours—and it appears to many on Christmas Eve, whispering: “Too late.” It feeds on panic. It loves your stress.
But it is not the only spirit abroad tonight.
For then comes the second: the Ghost of Christmas Past.
It shows you scenes you had quite forgotten—yourself, years ago, triumphantly producing a gift at the last moment. Your recipient’s face brightening. The proud swell in your chest.
And then, cruelly, it shows you the other visions: the gas station trinket. The “I’ll make it up to you.” The haunted look of a loved one holding something that clearly required no thought whatsoever.
You turn away, unable to bear it.
“Spirit,” you cry, “remove me from this place!”
The Ghost does not answer. It merely points—sternly, almost kindly—to a single fact: Thoughtfulness does not require the building to be open.
At which point, Reader, the room grows colder still… and the third Ghost arrives.
The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.
It does not speak. It never does. It simply shows you a future—grim, quiet, unmistakable.
You see yourself tomorrow morning, smiling too widely, insisting you are fine, while someone you care about opens a gift that is—how shall I put it—creative, in the way desperation is creative.
You see their polite gratitude, thin as paper.
You see the silent sentence behind their eyes:
“You forgot me.”
You reach for the Spirit’s robe.
“Tell me,” you plead, “are these the shadows of the things that must be? Or only the shadows of things that may be, if I am foolish?”
And now, at last, the Ghost relents.
It reveals a small, bright doorway in the darkness—a way out that does not require you to get in the car, or speak to anyone, or pretend the shipping gods still have mercy.
It reveals… the simplest kind of Christmas salvation:
An online gift card. Purchased instantly. Delivered instantly. Even when we are closed.
Reader, I do not exaggerate when I say: this is your Christmas turkey.
You remember how Scrooge, redeemed and practically vibrating with purpose, went out into the morning and bought the biggest bird he could find—an absurd, magnificent statement of generosity? And, let's be honest, a really cruel thing to do to Mrs. Cratchet at the last minute. She'd much rather have had a deep-tissue massage and a babysitter for the afternoon.
This is that moment, but modern.
You do not have to run through the streets in your nightshirt shouting “Hallo!” at passing children (though I will not stop you).
You can simply…click.
So if you are awake late on Christmas Eve, and the hour is unkind, and the stores are shut, and your options are dwindling into nonsense—
Take courage.
You still have time.
Get a gift card here.
(Instant delivery. No wrapping required. Dressing gown [or not] permitted.)
And so, as Tiny Tim observed (wisely, and with far better timing than most of us):
God bless Us, Every One.
That’s the Rub!
Get them here:
https://clients.mindbodyonline.com/classic/ws?studioid=5734232&stype=42
