SANTA DOESN’T LOVE ME…

January 3, 2007.
Well, he stopped loving me a long time ago. This is a fact. The jolly fat man stopped caring for me the year I realized he was fake. To be honest, I don’t remember ever believing his existence. So I don’t know how true this last statement is if I never believed in him in the first place.

The first Christmas than I can barely recall was back in 1981. I was five years old. By that time I already knew my mom had divorced my biological father and why. The reasons are not for me to discuss, but the only thing I can say is that I admire my mom for that. She is a brave woman and I love her. That year I received the Millennium Falcon, the Tie-fighter and the Snowspeeder from Star Wars. My mom told me that Santa gave me this presents, but deep down inside I knew that she was the one that bought them for me. Why do I know this? Because of something that happened a few months back.

My mom at that time used to work in customs for a Company here in Juarez, and almost every weekend went to El Paso. One time she asked me if I wanted her to bring me something from there and I asked for some action figures, hoping to receive some Star Wars toys. When she came back, she approached me, (and I still can remember her initial triumphant face) to give me the bag of little green, plastic soldiers that she had brought me. I felt betrayed and made a fuss over the fact that she did not bought me what I wanted (I still remember her face of defeat when she realized she did not met my expectations). To this day I feel bad for that.

Two years latter I had the confirmation I needed to know that Santa was non existent. We spent Christmas Eve at my Aunt Pat’s home. I was worried that Santa was not going to leave my presents because I was not at home. My dad told me that Santa knew were I was going to be and not only that, that he will drop some presents at my aunt’s and some other at home. Yeah right. Besides, at the time I didn’t believe anything to the poor guy. Christmas morning I played with Skeletor’s Snake Mountain,and several He-Man figures but also with my cousin’s brand new Barbies. Strange, two of my favorite things combined that year, strong, rough men and ladies fashion.

Next year the last nail in Santa’s coffin was put into place. My Uncle Bart, my Grandma’s older brother died on Christmas Eve, just a few minutes before midnight. All the family was at my Nina’s place in El Paso. I came back home with my Uncle Vic to remove any Christmas trace before my grandma arrive to her home, as she order it. That year I received a red bike. Meme, my younger brother received an electric car. Weird, since he was 6 months old.

Next year I received various M.A.S.K. vehicles, the ones that were cars and transformed into something else. Like an airplane that turned into a helicopter, a trailer that turn into a communications and strategy center. The little figurines each had a mask. Those were the toys that I miss the most. I spent many times just putting them out of their boxes and admiring them. They were beautiful. By then I knew for sure that my parents bought them for me, and they didn’t say it otherwise nor did they tried to put the Santa Agenda down my throat.

When I got to Junior high, I met a guy who up until that year had believed in Santa. I tried to make fun of it, but wasn’t able. I was in awe to find someone with that kind of faith. I felt a little envious but I knew that I never could be that way.

By that time I started seeing Santa and fictional characters in a new light. I saw them thru my younger sibling’s eyes. The tooth fairy, the Passover bunny, you name it. I tried to make them believe in the things that I didn’t. At some level, it worked. I was their Santa. I ate the cookies and milk that they left for Santa. I got excited when thy opened the presents that Santa left for them. I played with them. I started to enjoy Christmas again. We enjoyed the T.M.N.T. action figures that both my brothers received, and also, I put the Fab in fabulous in my sister’s Barbie and Little Mermaid doll. But as the time went by, they grew up too, and they found out of all this. Up until this day, my sister remembers that fact, that I ate the cookies they left for the Jolly Fat Dude.

This past Christmas I decided to do something different. I decided to ask Santa for a present. It’s been a while since I ask something from Santa. I made a review of the year and came to the conclusion that I had been a good boy (Imagine all the fun that I missed because of it). I said I’m thirty, I was a good boy, I don’t have what I want to ask him for, I have nothing to lose, so I will ask Santa for the following: A husband. Not just any husband. My ideal husband.

First of all, and most importantly, he had to be very masculine, butch if he will. He had to be mid-thirties to forty (just a ten years difference with me at the most). 6 feet tall at least, white, brown short crew cut hair with a receding hairline, or even better if he was bald. Beard was a plus. Plush-like chest. Blue or green eyes and that he wear glasses. Not too fat, not too thin, strong built and big arms. Well endowment a must, also a high sex drive. He had to be sharp, Intelligent, witty, non judgmental, and with an excellent sense of humor. A great dancer was a must. Someone who likes to go to the movies but also is content with spending an evening at home. Someone who would throw dinner parties. An interesting conversationalist. Sartorial. He would have to be very sensitive, loving, caring and generous. He definitely had to be out to his family and have a strong bond with them. He must have had his own life and was looking for someone to share it with, his own activities and his own friends. And most importantly, He had to love me, accept me for who I am and find me the sexiest man in the world. And especially I had to be able to reciprocate the same feelings to him.

Early December I sent my wish to Santa, hoping it will reach the North Pole on time for Christmas delivery. Then, I waited patiently. On Christmas Eve I was excited because, come next morning, I will have my present delivered. A few hours past midnight I went to sleep so that Santa could do his deed, and I drifted away making plans for my new family. Next Morning , I woke up Christmas day empty handed but with a sore shoulder, a muscle spam that I’m sure is a direct result of the car accident I had back in July and freezing cold, all of this for sleeping on my parent’s couch. No way!!! How could this be happening, I had sent my wish on time, what happened?

Finally after all this time Santa got back on me for not believing in him for all those years. That’s what I get for trying to raise the dead. But then, it hit me. THE FLUFFY BITCH KEPT MY PRESENT FOR HIMSELF. I mean that hot package was not going to pass down Santa’s radar. It’s my fault for asking for such a hot property. You might argue that I’m wrong; Santa is a good man and gives toys to kids around the world. Only one thing to say about that: tax deductions. You might argue that Santa is not gay, but please, what heterosexual man would wear a red velvet suit with white plush and black leather knee high boots with a matching belt. Hello!!! Do you know any? I don’t think so. Continuing with this, what about the horde of Santa’s little helpers. That’s a gay bunch if I’ve ever seen one, and all in Santa’s service. Also, what dude would prefer a reindeer pulled red sleigh over a kick-ass monster truck? Only a burly romantic queen would. You might say what about Mrs. Claus? Classic case of the wife how serves as a social window to hide the secret life of her husband. How do I know this? Those big glasses of her are not just to accessorize, the lady is blind.

At the end, what did I learn from this experience? Besides outing Santa (not so much of a secret, let me tell you), first I learned NOT to sleep on my parent’s couch, even if I pass out. After a week the muscle spasm hasn’t faded. Also, I learn to be faithful to myself. I never believed in him, I never should have done otherwise. I was reminded to trust my instinct. Also, I was reminded that if you want something, you have to work for it and not wait for it to drop from the sky into your hands. So, I will have to work hard this year to find that husband of mine. I hope next Christmas I don’t have the urge to ask for a husband, since I will be in his arms.