Six a.m., December 25, 1993. The day the magic faded to black.
My younger brother Chris, decked out in red union suit pajamas (I use to wonder about him) wakes my 9-year-old self up. “Ryan, get up! Get up!”
The day had come. This day was the culmination of more than a month and a half of anticipation characterized by vivid dreams, goosebumps, and that weird tingly feeling you get in the back of your head when you think of something pleasant. This was Christmas Day, and the Might Morphin’ Power Rangers Megazord might have been under the tree.
Chris and I darted down the stairs, nearly tripping on the tightly-woven pile of the carpet. Bearing left at the dining room, we came to an abrupt stop under the Christmas tree. Too bad we couldn’t open any presents until mom and dad got up, inevitably at some unacceptably late hour (6:30 or 7:00 a.m.). In the meantime, we got our sisters out of bed and ate the Hershey Kisses in the stockings (more out of spite towards our sleepy parents than an appetite for chocolate before breakfast).
When all the pre-game rituals were over, we finally got to unwrap our presents. And the Megazord did come. To describe this toy as “cool” or “the greatest sculpture since Michelangelo’s David” would be an injustice. Looking back, I think the Megazord holds a special place in my heart for another reason – I got it on the last Christmas I believed in Santa.
The whole concept of the Christmas season has been much less appealing to me since I found out the truth about the fat man in red. The month of December once meant so much. From prepping for my Catholic grammar school’s Christmas concert to wasting time thinking about the presents I’d get that day, those months were among the most cheerful, festive, and wholly innocent times of my life.
Now, December means finals, snow that makes the old tires of my Buick Park Avenue slip and slide across four lanes of I-95 and back, nights that start in the beginning of the afternoon, and extra work hours to pay for Christmas presents. I get so caught up in other responsibilities that it’s impossible for me to get into the spirit of the season.
This year, the last issue of the Mirror will publish on the 15th, and I have a final on December 22. I’ll be fighting with all the other negligent men on December 23 and 24 for the last pick of Christmas presents for friends and family. And then, quicker than you can say “Joy to the World,” Christmas will be over.
What can be done to bring some of the magic of Christmas back to my life? The registrar could help by scheduling the last final for earlier in December. I could also get off my butt and do my shopping on Black Friday as opposed to the night before Christmas, when I’m settling on a bottle of Old Spice from the 24-hour Walgreen’s as a viable present for my father.
What could Bandai toys do? Make more Megazords.
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