This was something new this year. The judges in the building each donated big bucks to make an off-location Christmas party happen. Our administrators and some volunteer coworkers rented out a rec hall on Friday from 11:30a to 2p and we had an impressive catered lunch (turkey, ham, all the trimmings, cakes) along with tons of raffles. SANTA walked in to hand out the prizes.

It was a pretty convincing acting job, and if I hadn’t been told shortly before his appearance that Santa is one of our judges, I would’ve been tempted to sit on his lap and tell him I’ve been a good little girl this year. Of course, knowing who it is and THEN doing that would be sexual harassment.
It soon became a pattern that each winner of a prize would go up, collect his/her prize, and then stay to take a photo with Santa, and then it’d be on to the next prize. It soon became apparent that all the pretty girls were being directed by Santa to sit on his lap as the photo pose. That was when I shrunk down and prayed, “Don’t pick me. Don’t pick me.” I got my wish, by the way. A lot of my female coworkers who were dragged by their hands onto Santa’s knee looked embarrassed. And then there were the judges, like the presiding judge and MY judge, who pranced up when called and threw themselves on their colleague’s lap for the photo op. My big boss even raised both his legs up and sat across Santa’s lap as if Santa were about to carry him over the threshold. Everyone shrieked with laughter and camera flashes went off.
As much as I enjoyed being a spectator, I was happy to have averted disaster this year. I was in a fluffy gauzy and, in some coworkers’ opinions, very short skirt.