“If you don’t care, don’t say so” is my philosophy and wish (for everyone) this new year. Instead of, for example, complaining about the lame party you’re glad you weren’t invited to.
Until then (This essay is being written on December 27), this uncaring rant must be aired:
For future reference, I don’t care about what you share in your yearly Christmas missive. Flat out don’t care about the exploits of your little future Olympian, the straight A’s of your future president, your own Nobel prize-deserving volunteerism, and especially not your family’s African safari. I don’t even care that grandma turned 100 years young (ugh!) and is as spry and cute as ever.
Here’s what I suspect. As for your truly caring family or friends, you’ve no doubt already told them multiple times all about your family’s big moments … that you so impressively (and corporately) outlined and bullet-pointed … a formatting improvement over the full-page paragraphs of prior years.
As for the rest of us, your letter comes across as one obvious, heaping humblebrag. And not only the quaintly immodest content. But the pretention that your audience is so immense, or that you’re so busy, that your special news must be published. (How about a phone call or email or text — expressing your desire to better stay in touch this coming year?)
I know this commentary is rude, but jeez, I don’t care. At least in the olden days, when these epistles were purply mimeographs, you could derive some pleasure from the smell.