The Elf Gig (The One That Started It All)

When I was eight years old, I landed my first job. I say “landed” like there was a competitive hiring process,

Really it was nepotism.

I became the ward Christmas party elf — a position that required no training, no résumé, and only one requirement: the ability to stand still without panicking.

My grandparents were the Santa and Mrs. Claus of Richardson, Texas — beloved, in-demand, practically booked out. They hit everything: church parties, community events, and every ward party within a six-mile radius. If you lived anywhere near Alto Caro and Hillcrest in the 80s or 90s, there is a 50% chance my grandparents appeared at your doorstep in red and white while you were trying to eat dinner.

They were beloved fixtures. Richardson claimed them, even though their address technically said Dallas, and I think that gave them a touch of outlaw glamour.

This was the year they added a small, nervous elf to their act — me, in a costume my grandma assured me “looked professional,” meaning she had glued bells onto something green she found in the back of her crochet room.

My costume was crafted by my grandma, who insisted she had “high-end materials.” Translation: she found a bolt of green felt in the back of her closet that still smelled faintly of Relief Society craft night, 1989. She added bells because “bells add credibility.”

When I put it on, I looked like someone had wrapped a Sprite can in fabric and given it performance anxiety.

I was basically seasonal scenery. If Macy’s had a dozen specialty elves — Magic Window Elf, Maze Elf — our ward had exactly two roles: Santa and Not Santa.

I was profoundly “Not Santa.”

My official job description was simple: stand beside Santa and look festive. That’s it.

Mostly my elf responsibilities centered on standing. Standing near Santa. Standing near families getting pictures. Standing near the refreshment table, where the Relief Society sisters hovered like a gentle but firm TSA, making sure no child took more than one sugar cookie at a time. And avoiding eye contact with toddlers who believed elves granted wishes.

I didn’t speak. I didn’t gesture. I didn’t even point, which, according to David Sedaris, the professional Macy’s elf-turned-writer, is a job entire elves at Macy’s were hired for.

I was simply Danielle the Elf, Master of Silent Cheer. If Macy’s elves had to take drug tests, personality assessments, and memorize phrases like “Step on the magic star,” my ward simply required that I not wander off and accidentally eat one of the props.

Mostly I stood next to my grandpa, who took his Santa calling (not a calling, but he absolutely treated it like one) very seriously.

I remember standing there, eight years old, next to my grandpa — the Santa of Richardson — and thinking that this was it. This was my place in the North Pole hierarchy.

Not a speaking elf.Not one of the elves whose job involved exclaiming things with forced merriment.Just a background elf.A decorative elf.The kind of elf that would never be accused of overacting.

At one point, as I stood beside him while he ho-ho-ho’d with emotional stamina only grandfathers and community-college drama teachers possess, I realized something profound:

I was decorative.

Not functional.

A seasonal throw pillow with legs.

Children would walk up, see Santa, and completely ignore me.

Which was fine.

Truly.

I embraced my role. I leaned into my elfish invisibility. I became one with the tinsel.

Occasionally, a mom would gesture vaguely in my direction and say, “Oh look, kids, an elf!” as if I were an animatronic display someone had accidentally left on manual mode.

But the ward members who took this production very seriously were the best part. One man, who only ever bore his testimony in parables involving livestock, approached me to whisper, “You need more whimsy in your posture.”

Whimsy.

In my posture.

I was eight. My posture was ninety percent fear and the other ten percent Capri Sun.

Throughout the night, children ran straight to my grandpa, visibly starstruck, because for them Santa wasn’t an icon — it was this man, this familiar voice, this laugh they recognized from family parties.

And honestly? I didn’t mind being invisible. I was eight, wearing bells, and trying not to knock over the tithing-settlement cardboard fireplace someone built during Enrichment Night.

But then the absurd moments came.

A toddler tried to feed me a gummy bear as if elves survived on offerings.

A Sunbeam asked if I lived inside a Christmas tree at the Dallas Temple.

One mom whispered, “Sweetie, wave to the elf,” with the same energy people use when forcing their children to greet a distant relative they don’t remember.

At one point, a man I barely knew leaned in and told me I needed to "add whimsy to my posture," which is difficult to do when your posture is 90% nerves and 10% Capri Sun.

Still — I stood there.

Still — I showed up.

And here’s the part I didn’t realize until years later:

My grandma kept looking at me. Between smiles and photos and passing out candy canes, she’d glance over with this tiny spark in her eyes — this pride, this warmth, this look that said:

There you are. I’m glad you’re in this with us.

Maybe no one else noticed the elf.

Maybe no one else cared whether I stood or twirled or sneezed jingles.

Maybe I felt like festive wallpaper.

But my presence — tiny, quiet, unremarkable — mattered to someone in that room.

And that’s the sentimental truth hidden inside all the absurdity:

Sometimes you show up to things even when you’re not the star. Even when your role feels unnecessary. Even when you think no one will notice.

Because someone will.

Maybe a grandparent.

Maybe a friend.

Maybe a child who felt a little less scared because an elf stood beside Santa that night.

Someone’s evening got brighter because you were there — even if all you did was stand still in green felt and try not to block the jolly man.

Sometimes Sedaris-level chaos never comes. Sometimes the humor is that nothing chaotic did happen, and you’re still standing there in velvet, wondering how you got talked into this gig and why your grandparents seem to be natural-born celebrities in wigs and boots.

Years later, Sedaris would talk about being a full-time elf at Macy’s. He endured drug tests, costume fittings, and thousands of strangers yelling at him.

Me?

I endured one 45-minute photoshoot, a drooping hat, and a three-year-old who tried to hand me a chicken nugget and called me “Short Mrs. Claus.”

And honestly?

That’s enough.