When I was growing up, I looked forward to nothing else like I did Christmas morning. Santa always spoiled me rotten, and I was always blown away by what he brought and how he arranged the gifts. It felt like torture to count off days on my Advent calendar, as absorbed in yuletide's crass marketing as I was. I was always restless in bed the night before, anticipating what Santa had in store for me. I struggled to stay in bed until dawn, when I knew I could burst into my parents' room and "accidentally" wake them up so we could start opening presents.

My Christmas wish list was promptly submitted about a month in advance, like clockwork every year, the day after Thanksgiving (a.k.a. "Black Friday"). My parents and Santa worked together like a well-oiled machine and delivered a slew of nothing but goodies I had requested. Ah, but which goodies? Prior to the big reveal on Christmas morning (we were not a Christmas Eve gift-exchanging family), my sister and I knew the gifts were scattered around our two-floor house, usually concentrated in our parents' bedroom closets and up in the creepy attic and crawlspaces above the living floors. Every year, I was faced with the same conundrum: Do I seek out the surely-unwrapped presents and check out what I'm going to get? Or do I wait and preserve the element of surprise?

Most years, I hedged on the persistent and gut-wrenching desire to find out what I was getting. Meanwhile, my sister would gleefully ransack closets and squeal some of the things she saw. If I happened to be nearby, or if our parents weren't home and my sister was shouting across the house, I plugged my ears and begged her to stop telling me what gifts I'd be getting. Nothing quite compares to unwrapping a present on Christmas morning with genuine cluelessness as to what is inside.

That adrenaline rush of the bona fide reveal was tantamount to any temporary buzz I felt when actively trying to ruin the surprise. Not to mention my parents would not be happy that my sister and I were sneaking around the house and unearthing gifts they had strived to surprise us with.

I distinctly remember one year when my parents had somehow found an extremely popular video game that every kid was desperate for. During a weak moment, I rifled through my mother's bureau and found a few Christmas items, including the sought-after game. My happiness instantly downshifted. I even went so far as to carefully open the package and play a few rounds of the game before my parents got home from work, delicately resealing the package and replacing it exactly where it lie in the drawer.

The damage was done, I figured. I already knew I had the gift; might as well play with it and get myself acquainted. That Christmas morning? My face probably betrayed my guilt. The big moment, the big reveal, had been thwarted. The big surprise that year occurred when I, all alone weeks prior, surreptitiously pushed aside some socks and saw the cardboard packaging of the game.

This personal history is a long-winded analogy to explain how I currently feel about the Confessions Tour, or any of the tours Madonna has launched since I have been a big fan. In this analogy, of course, Madonna is Santa. (No, this does not mean I expect Madge to belt out Santa Baby.)

And everything from the set list to the costumes to the lighting design is a giant pile of gifts. Even the people that are collaborating with her? Let's call them elves. Every little piece I learn about the tour beforehand chips away a scintilla of fun of the big reveal, the big moment that I am catching the tour live.

It's enough that I - and everyone else who has bought tickets and viewed a seating chart - know the stage has three catwalk-type extensions protruding from it. Despite my best intentions and respectful friends that try their best not to let any information slip, I have heard a few rumored songs on the set list. I'm not talking about the so-called givens, nearly all tracks, if not every single track, off Confessions on a Dance Floor. We all knew this was going to be a dance-heavy, disco-flavored show. One of the classics I now know to part of the show will be utterly incredible, but still … it would have been nice to be surprised with it!

And I think I, unfortunately, have a general sense of some of the show's "themes." I hope I heard and read incorrectly. I want to be amazed when Madonna gets thrown into an electric chair or a skateboarder does aerial tricks off a half-pipe. I don't want to expect anything. No wigs, no dancers, no props.

The little boy in me still wants his Christmas to be a surprise. When I see the word "spoiler" on web sites describing the show, I run screaming from the room. Last time I opened a web browser and without warning stumbled upon a "confirmed" classic Madonna would perform, I seriously considered bleaching my eyes to erase the memory. (Kids, don't try that at home!)

Not that there is a wrong way to appreciate the tour. My best friend called me during one of the performances of 2001's Drowned World in London. He thought he was doing me a favor by letting me hear Beautiful Stranger, weeks before I would hear it myself live in New York. When he held the phone out and I could make out the familiar background music over the fuzzy crowd noise, I immediately hung up and fruitlessly tried to put a mental block around what I had just heard. Too late. During the concert in New York, when Mike Myers appeared as Austin Powers on the video screen to introduce the song, it was vaguely anti-climactic. Like I had already played the video game and watched as those around me discovered their gifts for the very first time. Like virgins, you could say.

The rest of Drowned World was pretty "shocking" to me, in a good way. I did not expect La Isla Bonita or an instrumental Don't Cry For Me Argentina. (In the midst of the latter number, my friends and I guessed that Madge would do a little Eva Peron after the tango segment. Guessing what's next, even incorrectly, is half the fun of Madonna concerts.) Not one person who avoided spoilers could have foreseen the incredible wirework fighting of Sky Fits Heaven. The non-jaded crowd was floored.

Re-Invention in 2004 was a tougher tour to avoid getting information about beforehand because I was deeper into my career in the entertainment industry and my fanhood had grown. I opted not to pick up magazines featuring sneak peeks of the tour and resisted reading any reviews until after the show premiered in New York.

What a treat to be so in the dark as to the content of the extravaganza. Material Girl just blew people away, and Imagine was such an out-of-left-field entry that, two years later, the fact it has become so synonymous with the tour does nothing to dull the amazement Madonna was covering John Lennon.

Granted, learning what to expect before seeing the show live might loosen up the big fan and help orientate those who want – no, need!!! – to know exactly where to look, what to pay attention to, what songs to brush up on, etc. And does Madonna's team want us to know what we can find out about the tour? Are the widely-reported "leaks" actually controlled with the intention of disseminating tidbits of information that get us salivating? We'll never know if we're meant to feel guilty for digging up nuggets about the show before it debuts.

To me, the more in the dark I am, the richer the experience.

It's a matter of personal preference, how strong one is in the face of temptation and the value added of being surprised versus knowing what to expect.

Now, before you all start voting for what you're most excited for this summer, allow me a few minutes to quietly close the sock drawer, tiptoe out of the room, and put earplugs in.