Jealousy

First impressions are like opening a door on Christmas Eve.  Expecting to see Santa Claus I find instead, the Snow Queen with her frosty eyebrows and brittle smile.

Wrapped in icy white instead of wooly red she is a shock to my system.  Unfamiliar and cold, female and svelte, strong and imperious instead of round and jolly and grandfatherly, I am threatened by her simple presence.

And so I slam the door and turn to face the waiting room, an embarrassed flush on my face, an uncomfortable knot in my stomach, a need to make excuses on my tongue.

“A beautiful woman,” I say and feel the split in my tongue even as the words come out, knowing what will come next.  “I’m sure she’s warm as toast underneath, but who knows where those icy fingers have been and what strange bedfellows she has been forced to accommodate.  Can we really afford to let her in?”

And they all nod solemnly, like I knew they would.  What else can they do?  No one knows the Snow Queen, so she stands in the yard like a marble statue.  Cold.  Alone.  Undiscovered.  And we marvel over her beauty, at a distance of course. 

It is safer that way.  Had I let her in she might have won them over with her winning smile and gentle ways, but we will never know that now.  Had I let her in, she might have thawed before our fire, melted into our love, become as well known and loved as that jolly little elf in the furry red suit, but I never gave her a chance.

Had I shared my milk and cookies with her, instead of locking her out, we might no longer be living in this cold white world where strangers are left standing at the door and everyone else huddles fearfully before the fire.

My shame overwhelms me and I fling the door wide, call out for her to return, but she is gone.  There will be no second impressions now.