Look, No Reindeer

I tend to stutter into the end the year like one of those old Battle of Britain war movies: shot full of holes, two engines feathered, leaking oil, blowing smoke, and hoping I have enough altitude left to clear the White Cliffs of Dover. What can I jettison to gain a little lift? Not the truffles and sugar cookies, not the Cuban pork roast, surely not the nuts and chocolate and eggnog. The credit cards are too hot to touch and my belly is shaking like a bowl full of jelly, so foam the runways--I'm comin' in.