Only now, I’m not sure it was a dream. I remained under the covers for hours this morning, replaying it in my head and thinking more and more that rather than a dream, it was my subconscious revealing a long hidden secret.
I think I’m Santa Claus!
I know that sounds completely ridiculous, and I laughed off the idea as the product of too many Christmas cookies before bed, but the more I worked it over in my mind, the more it made sense.
Just hear me out…
Every year, I complain about how Christmas is so difficult for me, and that I feel torn between two worlds.
When I’m out in public, I’m filled with Christmas Cheer, and I’m eager to plan parties, put up decorations, and wear my silly Christmas ties to help everyone around me feel the Christmas Joy.
But when I’m home alone, I don’t feel at all possessed by the Christmas Spirit. In fact, I feel like I can’t handle the holiday because it’s just too much for me. Almost like it’s work to enjoy Christmas.
Doesn’t that sound just like Santa Claus? He’s always out spreading the joy of the season, and making sure everyone else is excited about the holiday.
But I bet once he’s alone, Santa Claus is overwhelmed by Christmas. All he does is work and try to make everyone else happy. No one thinks how much it must drain him to be so jolly all the time, and to have to listen to the endless parade of people telling him what they want to find under the tree.
When’s the last time anyone asked Santa what he wants for Christmas?
It would also explain why I feel so drained on December 26, and why I hate to see the Christmas decorations come down, and people go back to being moody and mean. All that hard work simply forgotten the very next day…
Where do I tell you I live? In a house atop a hill in a land where it’s always snowing and forever cold.
A house that is constantly visited by magical creatures, whose stories I share with you, but whom you’ve never actually met in person.
Sounds a lot like the North Pole, Santa’s Workshop, and his army of Elves, right?
And what do I do there? I write. I’m always writing. And rewriting.
Are you getting goosebumps yet? Are you starting to understand why this whole “dream” really got to me, and why I’ve been obsessing over it all morning?
Then there’s the running.
I run all the time. Constantly trying to get into shape, lose weight, and be healthy.
I bet Santa Claus works out all the time. One doesn’t pull off Christmas and deliver all those presents around the world in one night without being in amazing shape and having the kind of stamina that allows you to be on the move for hours at a time!
Plus, Santa Claus has to stay healthy because if he were to ever keel over from a heart attack, there’s no Vice Santa Claus. Christmas would go to the grave with him.
Of course, the whole running thing could be a metaphor. Another message from my subconscious as it tries to awaken me to the reality of my secret identity.
Santa Claus is always on the run. Forever moving to make sure all the toys get made, the Naughty and Nice Lists are accurate, and deliveries happen on time. Santa is the CEO of the greatest toy manufacturing and delivery service on the planet. He can’t stop running!
Since I don’t realize I am Santa, I see the fat and am desperate to lose it, unaware that it’s part of my image and what the world expects from me.
I told you this was beyond my usual Deep Thoughta, Modern Philosophers. We’re approaching Matrix territory with this concept. Or maybe I’m more like Rey or Luke, not realizing that I’ve been a Jedi all along.
It would certainly explain my work situation. I’m bored, don’t feel challenged, suffer from serious deja vu from doing the same thing day after day, year after year, but I never leave.
How could I leave? I’m Santa Claus, damn it! The world is counting on me to do the same thing for all eternity, or else Christmas will be ruined.
What a jerk I’ve been. Now it all makes total sense.
No wonder I can’t get a date.
I’m Santa Claus. I’m married. No woman is going to risk eternal banishment to the Naughty List for helping me to cheat on Mrs. Claus.
Why didn’t I pick up on this before? Now I get why I like to wear my silly Santa hat.
Maybe I put something in my eggnog to make me forget? Like it would be impossible for me to pull off the miracle of Christmas every year if I realized the enormous obstacles I face, so it’s easier for me to trudge along thinking I’m some introvert in Maine just trying to survive another winter.
Obviously, I wear the glasses to help mask my identity.
The more I dwell on this amazing theory, the more it all makes perfect sense. Now my life doesn’t seem as off the rails as it did just last night. I know who I really am and why I’m here.
Merry Christmas, Modern Philosophers. Love, Santa Claus.