The thing is Cory, you caught me on the wrong day.  I’m not a huge fan of Christmas.  And I know that statement makes you want to say “bah humbug” and lightly squeeze my shoulder in a jovial, salesy way, but please save it.  I don’t mean it like that.  I’m not anti merriment or goodwill – I like taking off work to spend time with my family and justifying my over consumption of sweets just as much as the next guy – but I hate crowds, gaudy inflatable Santas, Mariah Carrey Christmas albums that refuse to die, and our perceived obligation as a culture to buy each other shit to prove our affection. 

I was at Fashion Valley begrudgingly participating in this most trying of seasons (which, if I may uncharacteristically side with the religious right for a second, I would be perfectly happy having Jesus be the “ONLY reason for”), when you came my way.

Cory, I was squinting at a map at an outdoor mall in the midst of a rare San Diego downpour.  Did I, a clearly miserable individual dressed in a faded Sierra Nevada hoodie that you used as a conversation starter – “I saw the beer sweatshirt and knew YOU had to be cool!” – look like someone with a lot of disposable income?  Did I appear to be a person who might be enthusiastic about your efforts to “earn” a trip to Australia?

I don’t think I did, Cory.  But I also don’t think that mattered to you.  You could tell I was a weak person whose reaction to these confrontations is guilt and awkwardness.  You and your kind, with your direct eye contact and tricky wording prey upon people like me, don’t you? 

“Do you have a minute to save the environment today?”  No.  I totally have a minute but my desire to consume this burrito (which ironically came in a plastic bag with 40 napkins) exceeds my desire to save the earth. 

“Have you signed our petition to prevent convicted child molesters from trolling our neighborhoods in ice cream teddy bear trucks?”  No.  I am hesitant to sign something I haven’t read but am far too urgent about my Target trip to read this.  Sorry kids. 

“Hi, I’m selling candy bars so our basketball team can buy more than one ball, can you spare a few dollars?”  No.  I have my doubts that you are on a basketball team of any kind.  Try back when my roommate D gets home.  She has a soft spot for you people, though I suspect she’s probably more interested in your snacks than your hoop dreams. 

“Were you planning to volunteer with the Courage Campaign before this important election to help end discrimination against the LGBT community?”  No.  I prefer to contribute to the movement my own way, bolstering our army by supporting Bravo television and exclusively dating girls who once identified as heterosexual.

But you know that I rarely say no, don’t you Cory?  You can tell that I’m the girl who signs up for a monthly donation to the Sierra Club that I’ll have to frantically cancel over the phone when I get home, that I listen sympathetically to every crackpot who ever tried to put something on the ballot, that I shove whatever cash I have through the screen at the Boys and Girls club kids just to get their jumbo sized candy away from my house, that I…well I really do manage to avoid those Courage Campaign people.  When it comes to volunteering you can always claim to be leaving town for an indeterminate amount of time.

It’s really not because I’m a nice person, Cory, not that it matters to you.  It’s just that I have a problem saying no, because I’ve been there.  I used to sit outside Kmart peddling Girl Scout cookies far past the age when my cuteness alone could make the boxes fly off the card table.  Grown adults would respond to my offer of delicious treats with a grimace and dismissive hand waive.  I know the pain of sales failure!

I have gone bar to bar during an economic crisis asking businesses to help fund my totally voluntary participation in a sport, with little more to offer them than the publicity of being on page five of a women’s rugby tournament program.   I am old hat at rejection!

You read me like a book didn’t you Cory?  You looked into my eyes and saw how badly I once wanted the wolf necklace that came with 100 boxes of Thin Mints sold.  When you said, “I’m in a program to work on my communication skills, how I am doing so far?!,” you knew that I would hope you were just some sad community college student completing a hands-on assignment.  You were sure you could coerce me into ordering a magazine subscription in a fit of awkward guilt in order to help you earn “travel points.”  You knew that once I was ten minutes trapped in this conversation, you could seal the deal by telling me I could also buy subscriptions for poor, cancer ridden children whose dying wish was Highlights magazine (thus earning you a greater points total!)  My defenses were weak. I was hungry, wet, at a mall, and feeling curiously bad about wasting YOUR time, ready to throw money at this problem, but…you know what?

F you, Cory.  If I’m going to get cornered into contributing to a cause today, it’s sure as hell not going to be your dumb trip to Australia.  It’s not my fault that you went searching for “opportunities” in the Etc. section of Craigslist this month. 

Sorry I listened to your spiel and led you on.  Normally, I would have been a perfect mark.  But like I said, you caught me on the wrong day.  And as much as I’d like to splurge on your tremendous offer in the spirit of Christmas, I think it would really be in violation of my new motto: Jesus is the ONLY reason for the season.  If HE asks me to buy magazines, I’ll probably feel enough shame to consent.