“A ‘World’s Fittest Santa’ contest? Please tell me you’re joking."

My store manager is in fact not joking.

All I want for Christmas this year is to finally quit my job and figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life. Instead, here I am auditioning sexy, shirtless men in fake white beards so hundreds of horny mall shoppers can sit on their laps.

A dream come true for some women, I’m sure.

For me? This is my personal nightmare.

As a former professional dancer, my days of excessive exercise and counting calories are behind me. The last thing I need is a Santa with a six-pack.

But that is exactly what I get when my instant nemesis is crowned our winner, and I’m promoted to his personal “Santa Handler.”

Santa is supposed to be ancient and generous and kind. This guy is young. And arrogant. And obtuse. Case in point: this is a man who regularly boasts about going “balls deep into Christmas.” Basically, he is everything I hate about the fitness industry tied up in one glistening, muscle-bound package.

So why am I fantasizing about unwrapping him to see what’s underneath?