GEWALY ART

Santa stared out the front window of his Swiss-style chalet. His expression was one of concern. He watched contemplatively as tall fir trees swayed side to side from the cold southern winds and large flakes of pure white snow danced like fallen leaves in a hurricane. The scene wasn't anything he hadn't witnessed before. Living at the North Pole, this kind of weather was more the norm than the exception. It was always cold, there was always snow, and there was usually wind. Still, he wore the face of dread. It was December 24th, eve of his big day. Observation continued for several minutes.

"I can't do this anymore," he finally said, more to himself than to anyone else.

"Do what anymore, dear?" Mrs. Claus had entered the room carrying a silver tray with a large plate of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and a tall glass of whole milk. She set the tray on a small wooden end table next to Santa's favorite chair.

"This… this Christmas thing." He responded. "All of it. I just can't do it."

"Are you worried about the weather, dear?" Mrs. Claus asked. "This isn't anything new, we have these conditions all the time. And don't forget," Mrs. Claus' face lit up with a big toothy smile. "We have Rudolph."

"No." Brushing aside her comment, Santa turned from the window and started toward a large red velvet lounger. "It's not just the weather, that's only part of it. It's…, It's…," Santa stopped and gestured to the snacks. "Well, take milk and cookies for instance. Look what I do to myself, to my body." He grabbed large layers of his own belly rolls in both hands. "I'm fat, and I have all the problems that go with it. My cholesterol is through the roof, my triglycerides are off the chart, and I can't go down a chimney without wheezing like an asthmatic elephant. I'm surprised I don't leave every child on the planet with some level of trauma from the commotion I make. Doc is constantly riding me about my weight. I must work like a sled dog to get back into reasonable shape. From December 26th until summer, I watch what I eat and spend countless hours on the treadmill to lose the extra pounds just so I can start eating again in July to put it all back on again. My body can't take it anymore."

Mrs. Claus quietly watched and listened. She heard his rants before. It was the same story every year at this time. He griped and complained about all the pain and suffering only to eventually come around with more joy and excitement than ever before. She thought it was just nerves, so she let him fuss.

"You know good and well that I am lactose intolerant, have been for at least a hundred or so years. All the milk just gives me gas. The reindeer are all glad they are in front of the sleigh." He glared at the white liquid like it was poison. He turned his attention to the plate of cookies. He picked one up and stared at it. "As for the cookies, one of these years I'm just going to hurl. I will, you know, from here to the South Pole. I have so grown to hate cookies and I especially can't stand sugar cookies." He took a bite out of the cookie, distorted his face into a grimace, and set the remains of the cookie back down on the plate. "But I eat them," he continued. "The kids leave them out for me, and I eat them... as a courtesy I take a bite out of at least one cookie in each house I visit. Do you know how many cookies that is?" Mrs. Claus didn't answer, Santa mumbled to himself as he counted on his fingers. "That's approximately one-sixth of a cookie in roughly three billion houses... That's around five hundred million whole cookies." He exclaimed. "And they all go directly to my belly and my butt."

Continued...

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