One Christmas Eve I’m in Somerville, wearing my lucky red and white boxers under my Santa suit, and running behind. I take the steps two at a time even though there’s snow on the ground. 

I dash into the house and register that the adults are a little weirded out at my being there. Sometimes, though, Santa is a surprise guest, so, undaunted, I make sure to greet them all, shake hands, and wish them a rousing “Merry Christmas!” 

A 4-year-old boy with curly black hair comes around the corner and I give him a hearty “Ho! Ho! Ho!” (I had not yet learned to temper my voice volume based on the age of the children). He stops short, spins on his heel Grandpa Simpson Style and runs away.

“Oh, well.” I think. “Can’t win them all.”

Usually the host would have greeted me by now, so I ask for Maria and the guests point downstairs.

In the basement I’m met with another round of confused partygoers, but I don’t let that stop me. Oh no, I’m here to bring them the joy of the season even and especially if they aren’t feeling it.

I make the rounds downstairs, casually asking for Maria until we are finally face to face. I tell her how happy I am to be here and when does she want to take photos with the children. Bear in mind, the only child I had seen thus far was the terrified 4 year old. 

Maria makes no effort to hide her confusion, and point blank asks me what I’m doing there. I remember quipping something along the lines of “I’m here to bring the Joy of the Season.”

“Are you sure you have the correct house?”

I realize, with horror, that I’m at the wrong party.

I get out of there as quickly as a rotund fellow can. As I dash up the stairs, I collide with the only kid who’s at this party. He falls on his bottom and backs away on his hands as though he’s in a horror movie.

On my way out I see that I’m at house number 273, instead of 275.

I never wore my lucky underwear again.