I Believe In Santa.
It seems weird to have to say it out loud, because it goes without saying, but here it is: I believe in Santa Claus.
I am 53 and a 1/2 years old.
I am not sure what this thing is, this believing-in-Santa-is-only-for-people-of a-certain-age. I don’t understand it, I don’t like it, and now I am standing up against it.
I am 53 and a 1/2 years old — certainly old enough to know better about a boatload of things — and I have always believed in Santa. I believe in the magic of him, and the goodness, and the hope, and most importantly, the concept of anticipation.
Because that’s really what it is all about, isn’t it? The deliciousness, the fun, the joy of Christmas is not in the piles of wrapping paper scattered throughout the living room on Christmas morning after everything has been opened.
Rather, it lies in the run-up to the Big Day, the trying to be good (he knows), the making of the list, the writing of the letter, the meeting of The Man Himself, the wondering, the hoping, the leaving out of the snack and milk (and carrots for the reindeer) and most of all, that feeling you have lying in bed after lights out, knowing that there is no way you are going to be able to fall asleep because Christmas (and Santa) is almost here … and then the next thing you know it is morning.
It’s here!
That’s what I believe in. I believe in Santa Claus.
