Tasteful Nudes: ...and Other Misguided Attempts at Personal Growth and Validation by Dave Hill

Author:Dave Hill [Hill, Dave]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2012-05-22T03:00:00+00:00

Northeastern Ohio Velvet

When I was a kid growing up in Cleveland, Ohio, my favorite thing about Christmas was Santa Claus, that mysterious and bearded old man who traveled the entire globe in a single evening, breaking into people’s homes in the middle of the night, eating whatever food might have been lying around, and leaving behind gifts of all shapes and sizes, some of which weren’t exactly what the recipient had asked for,1 but whatever. And despite his on-the-go lifestyle, Santa still found time to sit in a big armchair and pose for pictures for hours at a time at the department store down the street from my house. I could go there, sit on his lap, and tell him exactly what I wanted for Christmas each year until he pushed me off his lap and signaled for the next kid in line to come over.

I realize my affection for Santa Claus didn’t make me unique. Still, I was pretty sure I was the only kid who really “got” Santa Claus. Even so, as eventually happens to us all, one day I found out that Santa Claus wasn’t “real.” Rumors already had been percolating for a few months in the second grade when I happened upon my sister Libby in my parents’ bedroom. Libby was just three years older but for some reason was allowed unsupervised access to the Scotch tape and scissors, wrapping a gift I had very specifically asked Santa for that year. Libby seemed to have her mitts in just about everything, so it didn’t raise that much of a red flag with me at first. I just assumed Santa had farmed out some of his busy work locally and my sister, an overachiever, seemed as likely a candidate as any. (My mom did that sort of thing with Libby all the time. Why should Santa be any different?) Libby, however, gave me too much credit, and assumed the jig was up.

“Sorry, David,” she said while putting the finishing touches on wrapping up an Evel Knievel stunt cycle. “There’s no Santa Claus.”

She tried to soften the blow by telling me that what really mattered was the spirit of Christmas and also some of the Jesus stuff we learned in school. It was a lot to take in, but in the end I figured, whatever—I’d still get all the presents and sit on the lap of some guy dressed as Santa Claus once a year. Everything would be just fine.2

But regardless of whether or not Santa Claus was real, I eventually learned that there comes a day when some people think you’re “too old” to be sitting on Santa’s lap. (The reasons for which I struggle to comprehend even as I type this years later.) And it was at this point, I guess by the time I hit my twenties or so, that I realized if I still wanted to experience the magic of Santa Claus each holiday season, my only choice was to simply become Santa Claus. To let the student become the goddamn master.

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