Back in 2006, when my husband retired, he began to slack off when it came to getting his hair cut, shaving and watching his diet. As a result, I ended up married to someone who resembled Santa’s long-lost twin.
He, however, was in denial. As I sat looking at his nearly shoulder-length white hair, big bushy beard and expanding waistline one afternoon, I told him I felt as if I should change my name to Mrs. Claus.
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “This isn’t a 'Santa’ look! This is my Harley Davidson look!”
“But you don’t even own a Harley. You don’t even own a bicycle!”
“Then call it my Jerry Garcia ‘Grateful Dead’ look.”
"Name one song by the Grateful Dead.”
Silence.
Not long after that, my husband took me Christmas shopping at the mall... where something happened that made him think he just might bear some resemblance to the big guy from the North Pole after all.
Whenever we went to the mall, my husband always immediately plunked down on a bench and “people watched” while I shopped. He really enjoyed studying people, and could sit there and do it for hours. That worked out fine because I could shop for hours...even days.
Anyway, after I finished making my rounds of all of the stores, I returned to the bench where I’d left my husband, just in time to see a little girl who looked about four years old run up to him and say, “I want Barbie’s Dream House!”
My husband stared at her as if she’d just been beamed down from some distant planet. The little girl then tried to climb up beside him on the bench, but her mother rushed over and grabbed her.
“I want Barbie’s Dream House!” the girl repeated.
“I’m so sorry!” the mother said, red-faced. “She thinks you’re Santa Claus! I tried to stop her, but the minute she saw you, she got so excited she just dashed right over.”
I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. And all the way home, I teased my husband about being mistaken for Santa. I also had to throw in a smug “I told you so” every few minutes for effect.
He, however, seemed preoccupied. Finally, he said, “You know, I’ve heard that mall Santas and department-store Santas can make pretty good money. Maybe I should look into it as a part-time job for the holidays. I think it might be fun. And unlike a lot of the Santas, my beard is real. If the kids tug on it, it won’t come off!”
He was silent for a few seconds before he added, “Trouble is, though, my stomach’s getting so saggy, it rests on my thighs. I don’t even have a lap where the kids could sit.”
“They can always sit on your knee,” I said.
“Yeah, but I have bad arthritis in my knees,” he said. “So that might end up being painful.”
I was beginning to think he should look for a part-time job that was better suited for him...like a mattress tester.
When we got home from the mall, he headed straight for the computer and looked up information about being a mall Santa. It was the first time he’d actually seemed enthused about anything (other than eating and sleeping) since his retirement.
Twenty minutes later he turned off the computer. I couldn’t help but notice that his expression looked less than jolly-ish.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Did you find out you have to have a college degree in ‘ho-ho-ho-ing’ to qualify?”
He shook his head. “I never realized just how much work is involved in being a Santa. I mean, it always looked like nothing but fun to me. But did you know they have to have at least three extra Santa suits ready at all times because so many kids get nervous on Santa’s lap and have accidents? And I’m talking about accidents from both ends!”
The visions that popped into my head weren’t exactly festive ones.
“And then there are the bruises from being kicked so much,” he added. “They showed a photo online of this one guy’s legs after less than a week of being Santa. They had so many black-and-blue marks on them, he looked like a Dalmatian!”
“So I guess this means you’re going to cut your hair and shave your beard now that your career plans have been dashed?” I asked.
“I’ll think about it,” he said.
I actually got my hopes up, thinking I’d finally be able to see his face and his ears once again.
But as luck would have it, a few days later we stopped at our local gas station. Our mechanic greeted us, then said to my husband, “You know something? You look really cool with your beard and long hair. I like it!”
That ended that. My husband decided to treat razors and clippers as if they were carriers of the plague.
But after a while, he finally stopped resembling jolly Old Saint Nick.
Yep. He looked more like Father Time.
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Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net
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