The truth is, I harbor a deep, undying hope Santa is real and have for my whole, entire life. There, I’ve said it and I’m glad.
You’re welcome to mock and scoff, because I know it’s dumb. My sister outed Santa when I was only 6 and she left absolutely no room for doubt. After delivering a snappy, fact-based refutation of his existence, she fingered my parents as scheming impostors, frogmarched me to the attic, and unveiled an eye-popping mountain of swag. There were dolls and toys, Flintstone building blocks, a basketball, board games, and the air was electric with the smell of plastic. I felt overjoyed and heartbroken all at the same time — my mind was blown to smithereens.
How could this be, I wondered? Someone was clearly trying to trick me, but who? Was it my sister, a known tyrant, or Santa, the bringer of happiness and bicycles? Well, my sister had quite a history of deception. According to her: I was adopted; my dolls were conspiring to smother me; trolls lived in the crawl space in the basement; she had superpowers and could make me disappear like that, snap. So …
I chose to trust Santa. Decade after decade after decade, I’ve defiantly ignored logic and physics and geography and everything else in order to cling to hope. Every Christmas Eve, I wander outside, stare into a cold, black sky dotted with bright, glittery stars and ponder the quiet majesty of the universe. I ask myself, if there can be galaxies and multiverses, exoplanets and invisible light, why is Santa Claus so hard to believe?
He isn’t. I do. And here’s my Christmas List to prove my everlasting faith:
Pretty lofty expectations, wouldn’t you say? Heh, no worries, he can do it. And if he can’t, I think I can manage the boxer shorts. Maybe.