Rarely, is it my intent to look like a doofus. Especially around the holidays. But really, what would you expect from a woman whose deepest desire was to receive dachshund socks for Christmas? I have to resign myself to my true nature. I am the girl who hot glues stickers to her sneakers. I'm the woman who wears a handmade wooden beaded necklace to a jewelry party. But still...
The Christmas Eve Candlelight Service is my yearly shot at glory (religious pun). This year, I was NOT going to screw this up. I bided my time, waiting for a glimpse of Brad Mosiman, who does Christmas right. Each year, Savannah and I respond to his attire with tired disappointment, "You're going to wear that?" We can't go to church sporting festive jeans with him in a dark suit and tie. Pretty sure that the shepherds didn't have time to stop by the local Men's Wearhouse before dropping in on the Holy Family. So this year, I took special note of Brad's sapphire dress shirt before sifting through my wardrobe for a complementary outfit. We were going to be the Brad and Angelina of Wyoming County. I unearthed a rich plum blouse and rubbed most of the wrinkles out of it. I added my sparkly dachshund necklace to add a discreet touch of class. Game on! Adequately attired, we headed out the door.
Upon entering the church, Savannah looked me over from head-to-toe approvingly...actually, her approval was suddenly cut short at the knees. "What'cha got going on down there," she inquired, with a discreet nod at my feet. I glanced down in horror to realize that I had neglected to change my socks, choosing instead, to stuff warm woolen hunting socks into my dress shoes resulting in some serious spill-over. Scandalous. To his credit, Brad didn't even flinch as he stood semi-proudly next to a wife with a massive muffin-top problem. I assume that he figured that the situation could have been much worse. Turns out, no one noticed my socks because the congregation was so caught up with The Mosiman Family wrestling match that occurred minutes later when I lost my candle. "Where is it," I whispered frantically, as the candle-lighting process began at the front of the sanctuary, freight-training its way back towards us. Distraught, I ducked down so I could soldier-crawl beneath the pews in desperate search of my lost light. Always the kill-joy, Brad would have none of that, holding me firmly in place with a tight grasp on my elbow. "Here, take mine," he hissed trying to thrust the candle into the hands that I held out of his reach behind my back. "No, I don't want it," I whispered unconvincingly as we played hot potato with an unlit candle. We had to pause to pretend to be a normal family when the flame arrived. We sang "Silent Night" knowing full-well that the ride home would be anything but silent. Brad and Angelina don't seem to have these sorts of problems.
Okay, this year was a bust (again). But I feel that I took a solid step in the right direction. Sure, that step was stuffed like a portabella mushroom into a teeny tiny shoe but nonetheless, I wasn't a complete embarrassment. So my goals for next year will to avoid being (unintentionally) bulgy and to avoid incidences of physical assault within the framework of the church. That seems reasonable.
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