All the other Santas had enough sense to wear black shoes to match their faux pullover boots; I have my white New Balance workout shoes. And even a pillow can't keep my black belt up.

I'm easily the worst-looking of the 17 Christmas Eve Santas ready to ride through Plantation. Will people notice? Will children dash away from our truck, scarred for life over a vision of an underfed Santa? Will adults shake their first and cry out "Santa! You fraud!"?

This year, our family manned one of the 17 trucks that drove through the streets of Plantation, tossing out candy canes and greeting the children, parents and grandparents that dash out of their houses when they hear first police sirens, then Christmas music. (Kind of a sick juxtoposition, eh?)

My 11-year-old son, wanting to be an elf, volunteered us for Plantation's annual visit from Santa. He has an outgoing personality and red hair that is perfect for his green elf hat. He and my wife will throw candy and finagle with organizers to get a route through our Jacaranda Lakes neighborhood (thanks for trading, Larry Lerner).

Me, I have skinny arms and am averse to having even my own facial hair, let alone a fuzzy white fake beard. But I do have the name.

A recent study showed school children gravitate to the letters in their name. Adams make more A's, Billys make more B's, etc. I've dressed up as St. Nick as far back in high school (under the false hope that the girls in chorus would sit on my lap) and at prior newspapers, when two weeks after a pay freeze was announced, I strolled in to the company party, spread my skinny arms out and joked "Hey, it's been a lean year everywhere!" only to be met with stone-dead silence.

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