That was the text I just sent.
To my 34 year old roommate.
Every year in my town, Santa cruises through neighborhoods mounted atop a bedazzled firetruck. He waves at children who stream out of their houses, shouts “Ho! Ho! Ho!” and throws candy.
It’s quite the scene.
Here was my experience. I texted my roommate, “Santa!” as I heard the sirens. I then ran to notify my other roommate (also 34 years old!) to don her shoes and be ready to do some big guy chasing.
She was game. Snagged her shoes and cell phone and literally ran out the door. Now you must picture this. My roommate, Betsy, is snagged out of bed where she has been non-stop for five days– due partially to marathon studying for finals and partially to a particularly pneumonia-like chest cold.
And she ran to see Santa.
We ran up the main street of our neighborhood and stopped at cross streets to listen cat-like for sirens before choosing our next path.
We found him.
(Looks kinda like Bigfoot, eh?)
Betsy did a dance, spun around, leapt into the air and basically jammed more movement into five seconds than she’d done in five days. It was a beautiful moment of placing adulthood aside for a moment, ignoring the finals, Greek paradigms and mucous lined lungs, to be a kid again and enjoy something freely.
Santa then hurried past, pelting us with peppermints, which we dutifully picked up, crawling on the ground like peasants.
He was quite generous.
We may have been more excited than the children.
Well done, local government, well done. You’d make even Leslie Knope proud with this spectacle!
How can you find small moments of childhood glee in the midst of this busy season?
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