Let’s microdose in my softest micro French terry sweatshirt gown. Let’s do Molly under my heritage-quality Molly Patchwork Quilt. Let’s celebrate the happiest season with the hug drug and a cheeky panty in boiled wool.

I live in the Garnet Hill catalog like Barbie lives in Barbie World. And like the Barbies, we have a matriarchy. All the men wear flannel joggers and have no penises. We do not need a social safety net because there are no poor, elderly, or human people here. The children buy their own childcare and Signature Supima long johns, which allows us ladies to stroll the tawny streets of medieval Portugal, or hunt whales above the Arctic Circle.

MDMA is all about connectedness to self and others. I want to mix and mingle at a private school winter concert. I want to make a hefty donation to the capital campaign and unwrap my crepe wrap dress for the head of school. I want to wear a $349 velvet button-down to the neighbors’ cocktail hour and sneak away to their timeless bathroom to pleasure myself with a porcelain Christmas tree figurine.

I am not connected to the internet or electricity. I wear feel-good fibers for the work-from-home woman, but I do not work or have a phone or a charging cable of any kind. Sometimes, I sip coffee and lean against a countertop, like in a staff lounge, except it’s very fancy quartz, and it’s Lake Tahoe, and I am alone.

My one true God is Eileen Fisher. I commune with Her multidimensional wide-leg pant. I swallow Her capsule collection of benzos and estrogen mini-pills. I exude holiday simplicity in Her iconic layers of neoliberal feminism.

When not flying in a jumbo jet to a tropical isle, I care for our planet. I breathe easy in organic cotton sateen sheets made without red dye #40 or fair labor laws. I bundle up in our coziest fleece made from recycled condoms. I watch Crazy Rich Asians in my Asian batwing robe, and I have never heard of cultural appropriation. Or bats.

I either stand perfectly still with no facial expression or do high-intensity interval training. I have the thighs of a ten-year-old girl and the fatless features of Jada Pinkett Smith. Yasss queen, we are the present every man needs.

Every gift tells a story, and the temperature-regulating linen quilt says, “You sweat like Dante’s menopausal mother.” The throw pillow embroidered with POWDER DAY says, “You like skiing and cocaine.” The wool-blend cocoon coat says, “You are metamorphosing and will certainly bone Michael Pollan.”