With the stress of holiday gift-giving, relative-visiting and weight-gaining on the horizon, Glamour’s December issue is chock-full of anti-stress methods hoping to keep the jolly St. Nick in each of us from turning into a poochy, green-haired Grinch. There are the usual caveats like “eat the roasted chicken instead of the fried BBQ wings,” “check that your credit card is not maxed out before going shopping,” and my personal favorite: “It’s okay to wish you still believed in Santa.”

There are a few not-so-inane helpful hints, however, including advice on how to create a personal sanctuary when obligations start piling up, and another one that really caught my eye—the anti-stress survival kit. On the left-hand side of page 87, there is a small box devoted to reader responses about their personal holiday anti-stress kits.

Now we all know these reader responses are ridiculous; I mean come on—Deana, 23, from Long Island, is face glitter really going to help you de-stress when Aunt Frida is asking you for the ninth time why you went to college for four years only to end up with a dead end job you could have landed right out of high school? I thought not.

As always, the allure of articles like these lies not in their actual content but in the hint of a seed of an idea that could, with some reshaping, apply to your life and to mine. The idea: It would be nice to have a bag, a magic pouch really, that contained all of the little tools (yes, Deana, even glitter) I’d need to beat the end of term holiday blues. In said bag, I’d keep:

One magic morphing paper.

This, my dearies, is no ordinary paper. Do you remember that two-page response you meant to turn in but forgot to because, well, it was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and no one went to section anyway? Or what about the 20 pager that makes up 92 percent of your final grade in the intimate seminar that seemed like a great idea during shopping period?

The magic paper would morph into all of these and more: the humdrum 5-7, the pain-in-my-rear, “I actually have to go into Widener?” research, and of course, for you seniors out there, THE BIG ONE. Whether the assignment called for footnotes or diagrams, annotated bibs or a boatload of primary sources, the magic morphing paper would be my first line of defense against end of term Scrooges...er...I mean TFs.

One perfect black dress with an array of matching accessories.

Like it or not boys, winter equals formals, cocktail parties and holiday shindigs! This is my magic anti-stress kit and there is no better cure to work-a-day world stress than looking drop dead diva delicious.

One VIP shopping pass.

This little item will prove handy whether you’re a shopping moron or a strategizing bargain hunter. Imagine, if you will, a VIP pass that gained you after-hours access to all of the best stores. For the inept among us, this would mean no manic perfume tester women, no screaming demon children and a bone fide chance to actually make the dreaded holiday shopping trip last no longer than one hour.

And for the pro, the VIP pass would guarantee unlimited dressing room access because we all know I’ll have to try it on at least three times. It would eliminate the line because I always forget about scouring the accessories table until I’m about to approach the register. And it would ensure that the 62-year-old shopping vet with her steely jaw and bone sharp elbows—a ghost of me to come, really—won’t grab the last pair of black wool mittens.

One sleep bank.

I went to bed on the night before Thanksgiving at about 10:45 p.m. and woke up a little after 1 p.m. Though my not-so-interesting story will be told with twinkle in eye delight for the next three weeks in response to the invariable “So how was your break?,” I know that it is not uncommon. With papers and exams just around the corner, the sleep schedule gets a bit crazy. Maybe I can get my boyfriend to call me at 4 a.m. so I can get up and finish my paper before going to section. No silly, just deposit your holiday hours in your sleep bank. When the schedule becomes laughably ridiculous and you turn into the droopy-eyed, nocturnal wombat shell of yourself, you can withdraw all the hours you saved up while you were at home living like a normal human being.

Antoinette C. Nwandu ’02 is an English concentrator in Cabot House. Her column appears on alternate Mondays.