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Santa Claus Is A Woman
The Month After Christmas

SANTA CLAUS IS A WOMAN

I hate to be the one to defy sacred myth, but I believe he's a she. Think about it. Christmas is a big, organized, warm, fuzzy, nurturing social deal, and I have a tough time believing a guy could possibly pull it all off! For starters, the vast majority of men don't even think about selecting gifts until Christmas Eve. Once at the mall, they always seem surprised to find only Ronco products, socket wrench sets, and mood rings left on the shelves. On this count alone, I'm convinced Santa is a woman. Surely, if he were a man, everyone in the universe would wake up Christmas morning to find a rotating musical Chia Pet under the tree, still in the bag.

Another problem for a he-Santa would be getting there. First of all, there would be no reindeer because they would all be dead, gutted and strapped on to the rear bumper of the sleigh amid wide-eyed, desperate claims that buck season had been extended. Blitzen's rack would already be on the way to the taxidermist. Even if the male Santa did have reindeer, he'd still have transportation problems because he would inevitably get lost up there in the snow and clouds and then refuse to stop and ask for directions.

Other reasons why Santa can't possibly be a man:

Men can't pack a bag.

Men would rather be dead than caught wearing red velvet.

Men would feel their masculinity is threatened...having to be seen with all those elves.

Men don't answer their mail.

Men would refuse to allow their physique to be describe even in jest as anything remotely resembling a "bowlful of jelly."

Men aren't interested in stockings unless somebody's wearing them.

Having to do the Ho Ho Ho thing would seriously inhibit their ability to pick up women.

Finally, being responsible for Christmas would require a commitment.

I can buy the fact that other mythical holiday characters are men. Father Time shows up once a year unshaven and looking ominous. Definite guy. Cupid flies around carrying weapons. Uncle Sam is a politician who likes to point fingers. Any one of these individuals could pass the testosterone screening test.

But not Santa. Not a chance.

THE MONTH AFTER CHRISTMAS

Twas the month after Christmas, and all through the house

Nothing would fit me, not even a blouse.

The cookies I'd nibbled, the eggnog I would taste

At the holiday parties had gone to my waist.

When I got on the scales there arose such a number!

When I walked to the store it was less a walk than a lumber.

I remembered the marvelous meals I'd prepared;

The gravies and sauces and beef nicely rare,

The wine and the rum balls, the bread and the cheese

And the way I'd never said, "None for me, please."

As I dressed myself in my husband's old shirt

And prepared once again to do battle with dirt.

I said to myself, as only I can

"You can't spend another winter disguised as a man!"

So, away with the last of the sour cream dip,

Get rid of the fruit cake, every cracker and chip

Every last bit of food that I like must be banished

Till all the additional ounces have vanished.

I won't have a cookie, not even a lick.

I'll chew only on long celery sticks.

I won't have hot biscuits, or corn bread, or pie,

I'll munch on a carrot and quietly cry.

I'm hungry, I'm lonesome, and life is a bore

But isn't that what January is for?

Unable to giggle, life's no longer a riot.

Happy New Year to all and to all a good diet!

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