When I can see my breath in the morning,
it’s time to get to work
I wake up from hibernation
not to the song of angels’ voices,
but the alarm clock din of reindeer snoring.
Sporting nothing but a pair of scarlet long-johns,
I hop out of bed with as much grace
as a rhinoceros on ice skates.
Sluggishly, I make my way over to my weights
and begin to lift them up
and put them down
After all, the cookie tradition is imminent
and it would be tragic to
suffer another heart attack
while delivering presents.
I don’t want to be able to sweeten pancakes
with maple flavored blood,
or be pulled over by the reindeer police
for driving while hyperglycemic.
I don’t want my breathalyzer laced
with a blood sugar so high it causes cavities
To the next offender.
My fairy cousin would kill me
if she found out what I was eating
even if its only one night a year.
So to keep my family from worrying,
I work out.
I’m fooling myself
(though that holiday is still ages away
when Aphrodite begins her 30 day
seat on the seasonal throne),
like a laborer
trying to empty the oceans
with a thimble
for all the good it’s doing.
Sure I need a bit of extra padding
for the colder months
but a big belly, though cute,
is hardly useful when it gathers brush burns
from walking down two flights of stairs.
After working a sweat into my whiskers
for what seemed like weeks
but was probably just 15 minutes,
I sit down in my polar ruins,
throw up my toothpaste,
and take my own name
off the naughty list.