Not the good kind of tired—not the "I just built a snowman and drank three mugs of cocoa" tired. I’m talking about the Thirty-Something tired. The kind where your advent calendar is filled with melatonin gummies instead of chocolate. The kind where the tree isn’t up yet because you’re still trying to find a time when your D&D group, your in-laws, and your therapist all have a free slot on the same calendar.

Send the text. Cancel the plans. Say you have a "migraine" (the migraine is actually just the stress of having to put on real jeans). Stay home. Eat the pizza. Watch the John McClane. The Fantasy: Everyone laughing around the table, no politics mentioned, the turkey perfectly cooked. The Opposite: The Kitchen Timer Escape Plan.

You know what I sent my brother last year? $40. With the memo: "Buy the kids whatever stops them screaming." Done. No wrapping paper. No return lines. No anxiety about whether the Lego set was "age appropriate."