Rear View

Dear Santa,

It all started when I married the Captain. I had known him for a long time, Santa; the excellent table manners and casual, maddening tidbits of knowledge on everything from Darwin to Dadaism. I expected to lose at Trivial Pursuit, get skunked at Jeopardy, and have copies of completed New York Times crossword puzzles strewn about the parlor.

The Time Lord thing, though, was a bit of a shock.

I didn’t realize I was marrying a Doctor.

Who?

Exactly.

Little did I know that an intergalactic smuggler with an itchy blaster finger, a starship captain with an overachiever complex, and a 900 year old doctor with a sonic space tazer came along with the deal. (Don’t leave me comments. I’ve lived this life for 20 years and nothing you can say hasn’t already been attempted by Vulcan mind meld. Resistance is fertile.)

I’m not holding all this against you Santa; I just wish you had given me a hint before I walked down the aisle surrounded by 30 phasers set on sugar shock.

But as long as we’re talking sci-fi, there is one thing I would like to have for Christmas. Keeping in mind that whole “bigger on the inside than on the outside” theme, all I’m asking for this year is. . .TARDIS PANTS!

Eat your heart out Kim Kardashian. You might have a butt that won’t quit, but I’ll have stretch pants that fit.