When my younger daughter was six, she informed me, between mouthfuls of frozen peas, “There’s no such thing as Santa. It’s the parents.” I leaned over the table, looked her straight in the eye and said, “You are correct. Now please don’t tell anyone.”

And just like that, the ancient Jewish ritual known as Don’t Ruin Christmas was passed down to the next generation.

I admire Santa’s pro-nice, anti-naughty platform. But Santa will never squeeze himself down our chimney. I can explain this to my children in one of two ways– either a) he doesn’t exist or b) anti-Semitism.

Being Jewish this time of year is like being in a rowboat at night, looking up at the stars and feeling content, when suddenly a cruise ship passes by, with its twinkling lights and booming music. The same rowboat that felt comfortable a minute ago, suddenly feels small and insignificant.

This is not a sob story. I love Hanukah, and I love celebrating Christmas with my in-laws (via Skype, sniff). I just don’t want to do it every minute of every day in the month of December and, oh hey while we’re at it, also November.

Here in Australia, Christmas is full on. As my friend Anthony puts it, “It’s all about barbies, beer and the beach, what’s not to like?” Excellent point, mate. But in Oz, there is no Thanksgiving to serve as bouncer. The holiday has been in full swing pretty much since the beginning of November. And not just in coffee shops and department stores.

My daughter’s public school classroom features a theme each term around which activities and lessons are planned. So far this year, the themes have been Marine Life, Planets and Space, and Dinosaurs. This term? Christmas. My daughter will be making ornaments, learning carols, and drawing pictures of a bearded man in a red suit who she knows either a) doesn’t exist or b) anti-Semitism. I asked a Muslim mother how she handles things at the school and she sighed in that way you might if you found yourself in a rap battle with Jay-Z.

Another classroom recently launched “Santa Countdown” or, if you don’t celebrate Christmas, “Countdown to The Day Everything is Closed and You Forget Why But Then You Remember.”

Religions are like diets. There are many to choose from, and not choosing one is also a healthy option. Some households might be vegetarian, or paleo, or everything in moderation, and it’s all fine with me as long as you’re not ripping up my front lawn to grow your special beans.

Some people like to say that Christmas is not a religious holiday. But those people usually celebrate Christmas. Celebrating Christmas in a classroom alienates children who do not celebrate this holiday in their homes. I repeat. I repeat the sounding joy.

Ladies, if you didn’t come to work, I need you to leave right now. Work those hips. I see you over there acting like you’re tired. Are you ready? Work.

Who writes the lyrics to Zumba songs? A five-year-old playing Mean Boss?

I’m not supposed to be thinking about what’s on the stereo. I am meant to be learning very complicated dance moves in an exercise studio at the Next Gen Club in Kings Park, Perth.

My friend Lucia is an irresistible saleswoman with toned arms and a contagious laugh. She loves her weekly Zumba class and invited me to join her. Lucia’s wearing her party pants – neon print spandex capris – so I know she means business. I am wearing black leggings and a panty liner, my go-to outfit for any activity that might require excessive jumping.

Zumba has its roots in hip-hop, salsa and meringue, so I know this class will feature a lot of booty shaking. Scanning the room, I make an unfounded assumption that I will be able to keep up with these ladies.

The regular Zumbies are in the front row. Jo from Facts of Life is sporting baggy, gray Hammer pants, and her friend is wearing a black t-shirt with the phrase, “I Woke Up Happy.” They are smiling ear to ear and greet the instructor with the kind of affection normally bestowed upon baby penguins in hand-knit sweaters. The teacher is a stand-in for Goldie Hawn in the second half of Overboard– effortlessly sexy in loose-fitting clothes and no makeup.

The music starts. We’re sidestepping and clapping. I can totally handle this.

A minute later, I’m trying to roll my torso in a way that is supposed to be sexy but when I do it, it looks like I’m dodging a tetherball. There’s pivoting, lunging, kicking, and lots of hair flipping. I think of the Joseph Campbell quote I saw in a bathroom stall, “We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.” I do some shoulder shimmies.

The regulars are nailing it. Their movements look relaxed and natural, and their faces are glowing with sweat and delight. They make a lot of eye contact with each other. During a song that, based on its relentless chorus, I’m guessing is called “Fed Up,” we do this dance move that involves punching your elbow to the side as if fighting your way onto the subway. The regulars think this gesture is hysterical and give each other looks like, “So happy to be rid of that loser, right? I showed him.”

During a break between songs, I turn to Lucia, “This is hard.” She smiles, “It’s like a party.”

One potential hazard of spending a lot of time by myself is lingering thought. Since we moved from San Francisco to Perth, the time I spend alone has skyrocketed. Overall, this has been a surprisingly welcome turn of events. I am at risk of turning into a happy hermit, making up new stew recipes and dreaming of becoming a lighthouse keeper.

When I’m folding clothes, or sitting on the couch writing, or buying deodorant for every member of this household because everyone needs to please start wearing deodorant at all times, a question or idea will inevitably pop into my head. And then it will not leave because I am very un-busy and there is no one else around. This question or idea – sometimes trivial, occasionally disturbing – will sit front and center raising its hand, “Call on me! Call on me!” What was the name of that girl in middle school who threw my Velcro wallet in the toilet? Why do so many fundraising videos feature someone showing words on flashcards? I wonder what my dad’s body looks like right now, underground.

Recently, walking home after school drop-off, a thought sashayed into my head like Olivia Pope entering the oval office. I want a baby. We should have another baby.

I went for a run. We should have a baby. I showered. I really want a baby.

I texted Dave, “I want to have another baby.” He texted back, “Do you want to meet for lunch?”

I couldn’t meet for lunch because I was going back to school to tutor children in reading. I was excited about introducing a seven-year-old boy to Maurice Sendak.

I’ll eat you up – I love you so. I want a baby. Throughout the day, the thought grew and grew, until the ceiling hung with vines and the walls became the world all around.

What is this about, I wondered. I am done having babies. My daughters are eight and ten, wonderful ages for chatting, traveling, and generally doing things without the panic brought on by the gorgeous but nagging presence of an infant. There is no more, “We’d love to go, but the little darling is still napping.” I am 42, an age where it might still be possible to get pregnant; making the deliberate decision not to feels a bit like turning down the chance to do a somersault on a trampoline. I could potentially make this happen.

As it turns out, one way to kill the idea of having another baby is to get in a stupid, unrelated fight with the father of this what-if baby and leave the house, thus celebrating my capacity for spontaneous exits. My body is no longer the main food source for any human being, nor is anyone relying on my presence in order to fall asleep.

I drove straight to the Windsor Cinema on Stirling, bought a glass of SSB (Semillon Sauvignon Blanc, the Corona of Western Australia), and scored an aisle seat to the movie Burnt. I ripped open the Snickers bar I had stolen from my daughter’s Halloween stash just before my great escape. A man sitting behind me was enthusiastically telling his friend about his dog Marcello who was recently prescribed some pills “so he can get down to his maintenance weight.”

You will never see the movie Burnt (I forbid it) so allow me to summarize. Bradley Cooper portrays a chef who is – wait for it – a narcissistic jerk. He throws food against the wall, yells at the cute guy from The Americans, and grabs Sienna Miller by the shirt-collar and screams in her face. Later in the film she kisses him, because nothing’s sexier than an abusive boss.

I left the movie theater and walked back to my car. The air was warm and, thanks to the Indian restaurant nearby, smelled pleasantly like curry. I didn’t need to go home right away, but I wanted to. My family is there. They’re all sleeping soundly. And will continue to do so, all night long.

I think there’s been some confusion. Allow me to introduce myself. I am a human being. I am not the tail of a horse, nor am I a recently deceased possum. My mouth is not a cave in South Dakota with family spelunking hours. While I appreciate your interest in the vocation of ear, nose and throat medicine, and wish you well in your studies, my orifices are not currently offering internship programs.

Yes, I am aware that it is spring in Australia. I have sat on park benches mesmerized by baby ducks, and just yesterday I successfully dodged the magpie heading straight for my ear. Nature is exploding here in Perth, with bright purple blossoms and parrots squawking at dawn. I’m even getting used to the white flowers in Kings Park that smell “like a gym bag,” according to one local resident.

I understand that in your lifespan, everything needs to happen yesterday, and by yesterday I mean the time of your great-grandparents. But your frenetic pace is becoming tiresome. You are reminding me of this girl I knew in college named Rachel who wanted to hang out all the time, and eventually I had to tell her that our friendship was becoming more of a burden than a pleasure and then she told me you’re a total bitch and I told her I have many faults but I’m definitely not a bitch and then she said I hate you and I said if you hate me so much then why do you always want to hang out? My point is, it’s too much.

A shout-out to the ladies. I understand you female bush flies need protein in order to develop your ovaries, and I am honored that you think so highly of my saliva. I also know that you are programmed to hang around animals and wait for them to digest their food so you can lay your eggs in their poo. But you see, that is disgusting.

You are lucky to live in Australia, one of the few countries in the world with more cattle than people. Cows are much more easygoing than humans, and my guess is that they wouldn’t mind at all if you flew in and out of their ears all day long. Plus, they bathe much less frequently and poo a lot. You would love them.

Gigi Hadid is an American supermodel and is the face of Seafolly, an Australian swimwear company. Seafolly ads featuring Gigi Hadid are all over Perth in magazines, at bus shelters, and on billboards.

There’s just no way around it. Gigi Hadid is drop dead gorgeous. She’s like Scarlett Johansson if Scarlett were always up for a game of beach volleyball. She has blond hair, full lips, and eyes that convey a combination of sleepiness and ass-kickiness, sort of like the actor who plays Puck in Glee.

In the Seafolly ads, Gigi has perfected two looks. One is the look of preoccupation. She’s busy but doesn’t mind stopping for a photo, as long as it doesn’t hold her up for too long. This look is often characterized by the use of an accessory – a duffel bag, a polaroid camera – and she appears to be on her way somewhere. Probably to a climate change convention.

Gigi’s second Seafolly look is more in the traditional supermodel style of, “I am a little bored but I also want to make out with you.” She is usually playing with a strand of her hair and reclining in a beach chair. She’s glistening with sweat, undoubtedly because she’s nervous to make out with me because I’m super-awesome.

Today I was at a mall in Perth to buy pants for my daughter. After an unsuccessful trip to Country Road, I turned a corner and there was Gigi Hadid, splashing in the water, looking over her shoulder like, “I’m just headed out to sea. Did you want something?”

It was an actual Seafolly store. At last. Through the window, I could see rows of bikinis, many of which I recognized from all the ads. It’s getting warmer here, which means I will be at the beach more often. I could probably use a new bathing suit. Yes I could definitely use a new bathing suit.

I walked into Seafolly and took three bathing suits into a dressing room. I undressed and pulled on a skimpy navy blue bikini. I adjusted the straps and took a good look at myself in the mirror.

Now I am about to tell you something that will shock you. Because it shocked the hell out of me.

I am not Gigi Hadid. I look nothing like Gigi Hadid. Really. There are zero similarities between Gigi Hadid and myself. If Gigi Hadid walked into your house, you would not think, “Well hello Rebecca, what’s in your duffel bag?” Not even for a second.

This is a not an embrace-your-body situation. My body has more or less been embraced. It does not need a video of women clutching their post-baby tummies. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m just saying that on this particular day, that is not what was going on in that dressing room.

What was going on is that all of those ads worked. Gigi Hadid got me into a Seafolly store, trying on bathing suits. Her hair, her attitude, and her glistening shoulders, all of it possessed me into thinking the only thing separating me from a supermodel was a navy blue bikini. I was actually surprised to see me in the mirror, wearing a surprised expression on my face and little else.

I wish this story ended with me buying the bathing suit. But $150 is too much to spend on something that won’t actually turn me into a spellbinding mermaid. So I left the bikini in the dressing room and drove home. Lauryn Hill was on the radio. Can’t take my eyes off of you.