The Santa Incident

When we left the Monterey Bay Aquarium we hopped on the trolley that loops through the area to go back to the parking garage. Barb and I were sitting, with others, on a longish bench that ran along the side of the trolley, behind the driver. Across from us was a friendly couple, and the woman - little old lady, actually - struck up a conversation with me about my beard, and how I really looked like I could play the part of Santa. That's a polite way of saying I have a belly that matches the beard. We talked about some of my experiences with the Santa hat, and she reiterated that I would make a good Santa.

Just as we got underway, a sack slipped from Barb's hand to the floor, and, gentleman that I am, I bent way down to retrieve it. But when I did, after being on my feet all day, I got a terrible muscle cramp - in my groin! Not just a tweak, not a twinge; but a screamer! It hurt, dear hearts, and it wasn't easing up. I'm about in tears and the only thought going through my mind was, "Must. Not. Massage. It." I mean I had just had this conversation with this sweet, grandmotherly-type woman about being a good Santa. No way could I sit there and rub my groin!

By now the trolley is moving right along, starting and stopping, going up hill and down, and I find it rather difficult to hold my position on the bench.  I found that there was just enough room between the seat back and the bench itself to stick my hand in and hold fast to keep me from sliding, and we proceeded up Cannery Row in this fashion, unable to do anything about the cramp, and holding on for dear life when the trolley started up a steep incline and the woman sitting to my left slid right down the bench and stopped. Sitting squarely on my hand.

I assume she thought my hand was part of the seat back, because she didn't move. At all. And now my new mantra is "Must. Not. Move. My. Hand!  Must. Not. Twitch!" Otherwise Santa, who just a moment ago was contemplating inappropriately touching himself, has now graduated to groping a total stranger! Finally the trolley turned down a hill, the lady slid off, and I nonchalantly removed my hand.

I have to hand it to Barb; when I quietly tried to explain why there were tears in my eyes, she showed a good deal of empathy by not laughing herself right off the bench. But it was close. Very close.