The socially anxious Santa Claus
Volunteering to be Santa, and actually going through with it, were two different things. Although I was as nervous as hell when I agreed to fill in, it was nothing compared to the feeling I had as I slowly donned the old Santa suit. This was real now, and I was committed. Feelings of panic and anxiety swept over me as I prepared for my debut as old St, Nick.
I felt weak, inadequate, and nauseous, all at the same time. I was hoping for a miracle really. Wouldn’t it have been nice to have Uncle Carl walk through the door, completely recovered and ready to take his rightful place as the jolly old elf?
And why wasn’t the damn wine working its magic? I’d already downed 4 glasses.
My brother and his wife were with me as I was putting on the suit. They were coaching me on what to say, what book I’d be reading to the kids, and how to wrap things up. I wondered why my brother didn’t just put on the suit himself. Well, he was as thin as a rake for one thing, and he also had two of his kids in the audience. They would pick up on things immediately. A good excuse, I suppose.
As I fumbled with the buttons on the suit, my hands were shaking, my voice was trembling, and my heart felt as though it would pound through my chest. Could everyone see how nervous I was? I hoped not.
I also had this detached sense of reality. It was a lightheaded, surreal feeling; like I was having a bad dream and would bolt upright in bed at any second, screaming and drenched in sweat. I suspect that it might have been some kind of adrenalin overload.
What was making me so nervous?
Well, it wasn’t so much my own family that made me anxious, it was the people that I barely knew, or didn’t know at all. As I mentioned previously, familiarity helps to lower one’s intimidation rating – that’s why I would have been more comfortable with just my own family there.
The suit was heavy and I was already overheating. My heart was still pounding like crazy, my throat felt constricted, and my mouth was dry. I didn’t have a very good feeling about this at all. I was rehearsing in my mind exactly what I would say, how I would say it, and how I might be interpreted by my audience. I couldn’t concentrate. I was weak with fear.
I opened the bedroom door and could hear everyone down the hallway. My brother gave me a “thumbs up” and agreed that I looked like the genuine thing. We proceeded to walk down the hallway as the voices got louder. I felt like a condemned man being led to his ultimate demise. Picking up the bag of gifts in the kitchen, I poured myself a huge glass of wine and downed it in one gulp, as my sister-in-law gave me a disapproving look.
This was it. No turning back. I was committed.
It was then that I had an uncontrollable urge to bolt. I imagined myself scurrying down the hallway and out the back door. A raving, drunken, madman dressed in a Santa suit - running for his life down the street, never to be seen again.
I had two options: Play Santa, or run away like a lunatic.
Oh, and I suppose there was the third option of passing out and having to be carried away.
Obviously, the only logical choice was to muddle through the next hour or so as best I could. That’s not to say the option of running away didn’t seem like a viable alternative at the time – seriously.
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