Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Crying When Meeting Santa

Considering how anxious I always was about meeting Santa every year, I find it strange how most of the photos that I had taken with him, showed me with a bright red face, crying and screaming with my arms outstretched towards my mother like to say…

… “PLEASE GET ME OFF THIS MAN’S LAP, BECAUSE I CAN SEE HIS BEARD FALLING OFF…AND IT’S FREAKING ME THE HELL OUT!!!”

Every Christmas season, my mother would allow me to take a day off from school and we would go into the city for an afternoon of shopping at all the big department stores. The afternoon also consisted of treating me to a delicious turkey club sandwich lunch, and then walking over to John Wannamaker’s to see the light show, and finally to Strawbridge’s to meet Santa.

Strawbridge’s department store had this really cool thing called “Dickens Village” where you could walk through a little village, in which all the townspeople were electronic and would moved like robots. It was kind of creepy though, because their bodies would move and their eyes would blink, as if they had just smoked a joint.

And as you would eventually get to the end of the village, Santa Claus would be sitting there in a big throne with one of his elves standing next to him.

One by one, all the children would walk up a wooden ramp and then stand behind a red satin rope to wait.

And even as I’m writing this, I can still remember how my heart would POUND in my chest and my mouth would dry out, anticipating the fear.

When it was my turn, the scary-looking elf would take my hand and guide me to Santa.

(OMG…this was the moment!)

And as he lifted me onto his lap, I would see my mother standing in front of the platform; smiling and waving at me like to say….

… “Go, Boy!”

Santa would first ask me my name and then what I wanted for Christmas.

I would always be calm to begin with, but then on my third or fourth toy request…my lips would start to quiver, my eyes began to water and the panic started. This is when I would turn to my mother, stretch out my arms, wiggle my fingers…and SCREAM.

Where upon, I would push myself off Santa’s lap, sliding down his legs onto the floor and then ran straight for the off ramp. And by the time I got to my mother, I was a basket case.

And if I had been an adult, I would have said to her….

…. “I’ve had enough of this Santa SHIT…let’s go!”