Being Santa

Husby and me. In our alter egos.
Picture by Ealanta Photography

It's the single best job anywhere. Ever.
And all it takes is a bit of red cloth. Some fur.
A beard.
And a big smile.
Seriously. Who wouldn't do this?
For several years, Husby and I have been appearing at parties and malls as Santa and Mrs.
There's nothing quite like the cheer that goes up when we step into a hall.
The rewards are immediate and long-lasting.
From the sweet:
"Santa, I love you!" from the little girl who just dropped her coat on the floor and dove into Santa's arms.
To the practical:
"Santa, I've been waiting all year for you!" from the little boy with the long list.
And the funny:
"Santa, that's my sister. She doesn't deserve anything because she always fights with me." from the little boy with the freckles and the cowlick.
To the touching:
"Santa, I need your help. My Dad's sick." from the little boy with the eyes that are too sad for this normally joyous time of year.
Husby takes a few moments for each of them. Gently and tenderly giving them their little bit of uninterrupted, precious and personal 'Santa Time'.
Acting as Santa to the kids is wonderful.
But the reaction from people when we are en-route is just as much fun.
Yesterday, kitted out in our red finery, we were stopped at a stop light.
In the time it took for the light to change, we heard that the man in the truck next to us had been a good boy.
That the woman on the other side really needed help with her mortgage payments.
And that the woman in front of us wanted a boyfriend. And also, where was our sleigh?
I can't think of a single other character who is as instantly recognizable and universally loved.
It's like being a rock star.
In fur and velvet.
Yep. Best. Job. Ever.