My most recent post for Psychology Today is on how absurdly long I believed in Santa. It’s also on hope and imagination. And a little bit of disillusionment.
Against all evidence and the threat of public ridicule, I believed in Santa until dangerously close to the point when sitting on his lap would have conjured more images of Lolita than wholesome holiday cheer. I wasn’t exactly deluded about reality, and my belief was less straightforward than you might think. Of course to most, even such nuanced naiveté requires no additional reportage beyond the laughably advanced age at which my fantasy finally caved.
If you were to ask my parents how they happened to end up with two Santa-obsessed daughters on the cusp of adolescence, they’d tell you that they enjoyed the many years of creativity that our Santa-belief generated. They encouraged us, at first, forging responses to our litany of questions, though largely they left us to our own devices. Each year, the world we imagined surrounding the nature of Santa became increasingly sophisticated. We erected a pulley system between our bedrooms for sending conspiratorial notes, and considered the role of magic, pondered off-season life at the Pole, and the very soul of the improbable individual around whom this whole seasonal mythology swirled. Naturally, there were ambiguous elf sightings. Continue reading