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Member Since 2000/The Card - Ashley Taylor

Aaaah, Christmas season.  Time for the endless flow of the “look at how perfect my family is” Christmas cards.  Occasionally you will get the “if you can’t recognize just how flawless my children are, I will spell it out for you in a Christmas letter” card.  Those are truly special.  Blech.

I was one of these people.  It started many years ago and just took on a life of its own.  The first year was by accident.  The photographer had been a gift from a family member.  The photos were immaculate, haunting.  There was the most magnificent 7 month old creature ever to grace a Crane’s cover.  I was overwhelmed by the compliments and calls.  They were never ending.  As the holidays approached the following year, I felt an urge to do it again – captivate people with my angelic offspring.  Here was my life – perfection. 

This continued over several years, each year a desire and frantic need to “outdo” the previous year.  I never once just grabbed a photo from a summer vacation and pasted it to the extra postage sized Happy Holidays gesture.  Hell no.  Instead I had the matching outfits, groomed hair and custom designed cards.  It was methodical.  It was intentional.  It was expensive.  The Card.

You know my kind.  My card is grouped with your college roommate’s from SMU, the one who always has a photo of her children in front of  The Cloister at Sea Island.  Everyone is in white, the children look like Ford Agency models and there are always sea oats blowing in the background.  Or maybe mine is right on top of your godmother’s youngest daughter’s card.  Their photo is of everyone posing in a pyramid, dressed in ski attire in Deer Valley.  Yes, it’s registering now, isn’t it?  The sickening, dreaded Christmas Card.

I spent thousands.  Just for a card.  For people I don’t even keep in touch with.  But that’s the point, right?  I like these people; I just don’t talk with some of them.  Ever.  Hence the card.  You! Witness my life! I didn’t turn out half bad! Life rocks! 

This year, the card should have read: You!  I am broke!  I am scared!  I cannot afford you any longer!  I never got that far.  I had the photos taken, picked out THE photo but couldn’t afford to take it to production.  That just cost too much money. 

Photographer:      $500

300 photographs @ $1.50 each = $450

300 custom cards = $475

Postage for 300 = $126

Grand Total: $1,551

$1,551 on Christmas cards?  Are you kidding me???  My offspring will have to wait another year before they can grace their beauty on random mantels and bulletin boards.  Truth be told, it was an easy out.  “Can’t afford it” has become a useful alibi for when I am simply feeling lazy.  Stuffing, addressing and posting 300 Christmas cards is no easy feat, especially during the most hectic time of year.

I was completely ok with forgoing The Card this year – except for one reason.  Every single year, since the beginning of this illustrious affair, I frame one of my cards and proudly display it in my house – this way EVERYONE can share in my joy.  Oh lucky you!  I have eight framed photo cards.  What would I do about a missing year?  I cannot break the tradition; it would haunt me – much more than ditching my 300 friends. 

So, this is what one does when backed into a budget conscious corner.  I really started to inspect each Christmas card from friends and relatives that came in the mail – examined the color, borders, size of the card.  The day came when I opened the perfect match.  I simply peeled off their perfect photo, tossed it in the trash and pasted one (that’s all I ordered) of my $1.50 photos onto their custom creation; framed it and hung it on my wall.  Voila.  Never mind that one day a great-great grandchild or nephew may open the frame, read the inside of the card and wonder just who in the hell the Holden’s are.

Happy Holidays!

With peace from the Holden Family

Gretchen and Jim

Anna (9), James (11), and Sarah (7)

That’s ok because I am going to print out this little explanation and place it inside the frame.  It will be our own little piece of “The Great Recession” family history.