When I was a child, I remember sitting up every single Christmas Eve waiting to catch Santa coming down my chimney.
I never did catch him, of course. I always fell asleep right before he got there. Funny enough, even through my sleep, I'd always hear him. The echoing sound of his boots on the roof, a puff as he came down the chimney, the low jingling of the small bells on the Christmas tree as he moved around it... In those moments, I would fight with all of my might to open my eyes—But no matter what, I never could catch a glimpse of him.
I had been so determined throughout my childhood, trying my hardest to stay up later and later to catch him in the act.
This tradition of mine stopped when I turned sixteen and stayed up long enough to witness my parents sneaking gifts under the tree with my name written on them. Even now I wonder why they allowed me to go so long believing in that fantasy.
I also wondered who was on our roof every Christmas Eve if Santa never truly existed.
I gave up on the existence of Santa Claus after that, of course. I got older, and the heartbreak of him not being real only lasted a moment anyway.
After that, I focused on growing up. I graduated high school, went to college, graduated college, got a job—And between all of my successes, I partied. As was my right as a young woman celebrating greatness.
