Ugly Sweater Day

My husband used to call Christmas "Ugly Sweater Day" because he could always count on getting at least one, you got it, ugly sweater from a relative on Chirstmas morn. The kind your mom would make you wear to please your old Aunt Gracie, and your friends would make fun of behind your back. I've had my own share of Christmas horror stories.

My father never bought presents. It was something my mom (or Santa, depending upon how old I was at the time) did, addressing them all "from Mom and Dad" even though he never stepped outside the house to even help in the shopping. But one year, he did indeed go out to do the shopping. And he elected me to do the wrapping. The only thing was, he'd placed all the present in brown paper bags, and insisted I wrapped the gift while still encased in its brown wrapper. That way I couldn't see my own gifts, or anyone else's either. So wrap I did although it was difficult and I used up a LOT of tape.

On the merry morning of Christmas day, the family came down to see what dad had bought for us all. Everyone was a little shocked to see the brown paper bags underneath all the wrapping of the mishapen lumps that were supposedly gifts. Inside the brown bags, the gifts, still containing their original price tags were found. Apparently dad had been to a sale, because everything was only $1 - $5 and no more. Not that I am stingy and want expensive presents, but one doesn't need to know that one's father spent only a buck on one's gift.

I don't recall the others' gifts, but the were as equally terrible and poorly chosen as mine. Dad had given me two record albums, one of Abba and the other of Earth, Wind and Fire. I'd never heard of those bands, and they were not my musical tastes at the age of 10 anyway. I also received a small painting of a crying clown. I'm not sure why, I really don't like clowns! But dad tried, and we appreciated his efforts, but that was the last year he ever bought us presents. He left that job to Mom.

When I got married, I had to deal with two holidays, and the fear of again receiving gifts that I would not feel quite right in returning. Consequently I got a lot of ugly sweaters. (And I will admit, some nice ones too - Thanks, Nana!) But my mother-in-law's tastes in clothes were definitely not my own. And, for some reason, she thought I weighed about 80 pounds and stood 4'6" tall, because everything she got me was a size 4. Size 4 petite. Imagine trying to put Barbie clothes on a Raggedy Ann doll and you'll know what I mean.

One year she gave me a trench coat. Just like hers. And it was so small the sleeves didn't even reach my wrists. If I'd flexed any muscles in my back, it would've split in two. Oh well. No biggie. I think she eventually got the idea when she realized she never saw me wearing the clothes she bought for me. I still flinch when I see outfits in my dresser I've not worn since she had me model them for her.

Last year my mother won the prize. I've developed a fear I am becoming like my mother in certain ways I hope not to, and I think that Mom thinks I am more like her than ever. Last year she got me a sweatshirt. (OK, that's cool.) With cats on it. (Well, um, I guess.) They were humanoid cats. (Uh, right.) Wearing jogging clothes and running. (Guess I'm giving up that activity.) And on the back, of course, were the backsides of all these humanoid, clothed jogging cats. Whoops! That one seemed to slip on its own right into the Goodwill bag.

Thanks, everyone. I do appreciate the thought. But maybe next year, how about a gift certificate instead?

My Stories
The Art of Being Human

Email: artofbeinghuman@yahoo.com