Worse than ugly Christmas sweaters
Christmas was pretty low-key. Easy.
Regular stuff: blue jeans, sweatshirts, and boots. Red dirt.
All that changed when she arrived.
(Not her fault – a product of her environment.)
But, determined to please and show acceptance, things changed.
Reluctant purchases – so she’d feel at home.
Of (gasp) holiday sweaters.
Does anyone besides elementary teachers really wear these we fretted.
An extensive collection was necessary for holiday parties, different ones for Christmas Eve, and yet another for Christmas Day? (Is there a guide to the rules somewhere?)
What if it’s 80 as usual? (Wool is so scratchy).
How about a Christmas sweatshirt instead? No? Easier to wash. No? Oh, OK.
Next there was critical examination of lounge wear and pajamas.
There’s some rule all must be flannel in plaids or Santa red?
Not only mother daughter matching gowns with robes, but matching PJ’s for the menfolk, too?
Those Christmas morning outfits must match for the holiday family photos?
Oh, OK. It’s the season to be jolly.
And to make compromises to get along.
But you have to put your foot down sometime.
It’s those Christmas socks: Worse than ugly Christmas sweaters.
Big bird ones. (Magnet for those ankle biter kids crawling around.)
Ones with sparkles and jewels (No wise man would touch those.)
Ones with lights that flash and blink. (Dare get around spilled liquids?)
Even ones that sing. (And how do you wash those?)
They never wear out.
End up with as a lumpy pile in back of the drawer most of the year.
But, it’s once a year.
No big deal.
Besides, with boots, just smile and display a top edge if anyone asks.
Can toe the line there.
This other thing. Really?
Asking too much?
Yes, you are.
Refusing to tell if wearing that special Christmas underwear.
Merrily, merrily Christmas cheer!
Phil, the Philosopher Mouse of the Hedge.