Elfin’ ain’t easy — especially when you’re XXL and middle-aged.
Your back aches from standing on a cement floor as you hand candy canes to children after they take photos and talk with Santa.
Your smile must be frozen in place, your temperament always set to “merry.”
And best of luck finding festive tights that stretch above the waist without splitting and an elf tunic that truly is one-size-fits-all.
Such are the travails of a mirthful elf with a predilection for sugary treats and a stack of AARP-eligibility notifications.
But when a bright-eyed young boy smiles at you and then asks Santa if you are one of his elves, well, the job is the reward.
Oh, I should probably introduce myself at this point.
My name is Portly. Portly the Elf. And for a few hours on a recent Friday evening at the Toledo Zoo, I was Santa’s not-so-little helper.
TIGHTLY WOUND
I won’t share how I came to be. Magic’s secrets, whether of the holiday variety or Las Vegas spectacle, should never be revealed.
But I will tell you a lot of work went into my big debut.
First, there were phone calls to make in order to land the one-and-done gig. That’s how I joined the Big Guy at the Toledo Zoo’s Santa Encounter, where he makes nightly appearances through Dec. 23. Even better, as I learned, Santa makes his daily grand entrance at 4:30 in the afternoon on the zip-line across Africa! adventure, weather permitting. If the Jolly Ol’ Fat Man could fly through the air, then why not Portly the Elf?
Once the details were worked out for my appearance, the real chore began: finding size-appropriate elvish attire. Since there is no big-and-tall shop for the husky elf, a local store's selection of a one-size-fits-all tunic and plus-sized accouterments would have to suffice.
A bit later on, I wrangled with the costume during a try-on session; while I truly earned my tug-of-war victory over the snug holiday tights, I had grave concerns over a wardrobe malfunction of an elf kind. The red-and-green tunic concealed everything from the neck to just above my knees quite well — but what would happen when all that mass was in motion?
I slipped on my pointed green shoes with red balls at the tip and silver bells around the ankle, placed the snug red-and-green jingly-jangly elf hat on my head, and tied a red rope around my belly, like a decorative red equator for my North and South poles.
As I posed for a test photo next to my living room Christmas tree, the holiday spirit welled up inside of me (or maybe it was a delayed reaction to lunch). And thus the opening lines to my theme song: “Portly the Elf/is a holly-jolly elf/he laughs so hard his sides do shake/along with everything else."
NOT-SO-GRAND ENTRANCE
A soul has never experienced life until he or she has driven through town just before rush hour in full elfish attire, and then walked across a bitter-cold parking lot replete with curious but friendly gawkers.
An hour later, I wished that was the worst part of my day, as I labored up what I counted to be 2,112 stairs to reach the pinnacle of the 80-foot zip-line tower. In a bit I would take off for my festive 763-foot flight above the frozen tundra of the Africa! exhibit, but this Elfin Knievel would not go easily. Was this to be my Snake River Canyon moment?
I’d signed the waiver, been saddled with the zip-line’s gear, including a GoPro camera mounted on my protective helmet, and was told by the skilled handler as well as zip-lining Santa that I was not in any way in jeopardy. The zip-line cable can hold 20,000 pounds, certainly enough for Portly.
The elf must go on.
Mustering just enough courage, I was off. My legs were crossed as I left the deck, just as I was told, then I opened them, like unfurling a sail to slow a vessel’s speed. But the wind behind my ample frame was too much for my puny sail.
I picked up speed.
I was having too much fun to notice.
I picked up more speed.
Again, I didn’t care as I raced along, a blur of festive greens and reds yelling “Whoooo!,” oblivious to the fact I was giving new meaning to the phrase, “hurtling at breakneck speed.”
And then I saw the end of the ride.
“Shouldn't I be slowing down?” I wondered. This was followed by mild concern.
“Don't drop the f-bomb,” I thought. “Don’t drop the f-bomb.”
Wham! My helmeted noggin’ slammed hard into the ride’s handlebars I was clinging to as I reached the first of two braking mechanisms to slow my momentum.
“Ooooof, did I drop the f-bomb?”
Bam! The second brake stopped my momentum hard — like running at full speed into a brick wall. And thus the answer to the paradox of what happens when the irresistible force meets the immovable object: The object wins.
It was over. But what about my head?
Standing dazed but happy to be alive on the landing pad of the zip-line, I mentally ran through my own version of the NFL's sideline concussion protocol: “There are 50 states. Check. The first president was George Washington. Check. Today is Dec. 7, Pearl Harbor Day ... how appropriate.”
I was still shaken as the team helped me out of my harness. Then I watched Santa gracefully zip to us, “ho-ho-ho”-ing and waving to a small crowd of families all the way down. He was poetry in the air. I was happy to be alive.
Jolly Ol’ Saint Nick gave me a hug for my bravery as we trekked down the stairs. As we greeted the small group of giddy children waiting for us, I wondered if there was a trickle of blood running down my forehead (there wasn’t) and what would be their reaction.
(I should take a moment to add that zip-lining is a safe and fun activity and that my experience at the Toledo Zoo is an aberration — one that I consider to be the result of user [me] error. Please don’t let my experience keep you from having one of your own.)
UP TO THE TASK
Santa is never late for his arrival at 5 p.m. sharp at the faux North Pole. Portly, though, was several minutes tardy.
And so I quietly took my spot a few feet from my boss and just before the children and their families made their exit from the Santa Encounter.
“Encounter” seems rather ominous, suggesting children may or may not survive their meetings with Kris Kringle. I wasn’t worried about Santa; as we elves like to say, he had it in the bag.
No, I was worried about my family-friendly appearance — was everything where it was supposed to be? — as well as my small task list for the evening: Be merry. Hand out candy. Be merry some more.
As the line of families waiting for their Santa time grew, Mr. Claus looked at me with the calm and care in his eyes that is part of his job, and I knew instantly everything was going to be fine.
JOLLY OL’ FUN
The steady stream of children approached Santa with awe and joy (and often would leave him with a big hug).
First, they would pose for photos. Then Santa would talk with each of them. Sometimes he would note how much they had grown since last Christmas, or inquire if they had been eating their vegetables, keeping their rooms clean, or getting along with their siblings. The consistent answer was “mostly”; none of the kids tried to pull a fast one on him, especially with parents close by to fact-check as well as the ultimate arbiter, Santa's “Naughty and Nice” book, at the ready.
In fact, every child he met had been good this year, he declared, which then led to his much-anticipated BIG QUESTION: What the child wanted for Christmas. During their answers, Santa watched for visual cues about the present from the parents; would a “a small drone” be acceptable, for example? Pets, however, were out. Santa doesn’t put live animals in his bag. As he told one older girl who asked for a turtle, “Imagine if they fell out of the bag while I’m flying in the sleigh?”
And so the time zipped by for two hours. Santa brought happiness, and I handed out the candy canes that Mrs. Claus had made just that morning. Apparently, Rudolph had gotten into the kitchen after Mrs. Claus left, knocked over the bucket of candy, and stepped on a few of the candy canes on the way out. Any child who received a “special” broken candy cane could keep that one and have one that wasn’t broken.
Before I left, there was the one boy who, after sizing up this hefty-sized elf, asked if I was real. Santa told him yes. I had made it.
But with my back bothering me, I made my quiet exit. I slipped through the exit door, and into the bathroom to put sweat pants over my tights and replace my pointed elf shoes with more practical tennis shoes. And then I was off into the night, walking through the zoo, lit up and crowded for Lights Before Christmas.
As I hopped into my car and cranked up the heat and Christmas tunes, my retirement turned my merry and bright into slightly glum.
Elfin’ ain't easy, as the red marks on my forehead reminded me. But it sure is jolly ol’ fun.
First Published December 14, 2018, 1:00 p.m.
