Search This Blog

Wednesday, December 3

Run Rudolph, Run

My closest friends have warned me that I don't have the guts to write about this subject, but that's what they said when I wrote about wishing my boobs were brains, so who's laughing now?

A dedicated blogger doesn't shy away from tough stories, The ones that might even make a few enemies. And that's why it's time to take on a subject that is hallowed to many women, even a religion of sorts. I speak, of course, of the holiday sweater cult.

Those of you who are reading this whilst fingering the delicate silver bells attached to the meticulously embroidered reindeer tableau that is dancing across your chest might wanna bail now.

I never noticed the cult until my youngest daughter had started kindergarten, although, I'm not a big fan of "character wear" in general. There's just something not quite right about grown women who wear Tweedy Bird sweatshirts over their leggings at the mall. I mean unless you run a daycare center, isn't it time to move on and get Road Runner off your chest? And nobody over the age of ten should ever wear any article of clothing that announces I tawt I Taw a Puddytat. Talk about a cry for help.

But I digress. It's the holiday sweater cult that has got me in a swivet. At this years Fall Festival, I apparently didn't get the memo that I must wear an elegant themed sweater painstakingly adorned with pumpkins, ghosts, and bats.

Some of these sweaters are insanely expensive. One cult member confided to me that she once spent $275.00 for a butter-soft wool sweater with dancing candy canes and nut-crackers prancing around her neck. Her eyes danced, her voice became high-pitched---she wanted me to drink the Kool-Aid, no question.

Class wars are evident. You've got your $14.98 Frost the Snowman from Wal-Mart versus your $200.00 Brighton version from the prissy boutique with the size 0 sales staff, and don't think the cult members won't know the difference.

Far be it from me to question another's sense of fashion ( I did, after all, wear a mod paper dress in junior high ) but this whole cutesy wootsy, elves-are-eating-my-brain thing where you own an entire wardrobe of sweaters with buttons that can be pushed to play "The Twelve Days of Christmas" is beyond me.

One friend told me she has enough sweaters to wear a different Christmas sweater from December first to twenty-fifth. My only response was, "Why?"

Fashion holds little interest for me. However, I am fascinated by women who spend five hundred dollars on single pair of high heels. Even if I had that kind of dough, I wouldn't do it, because somewhere in the back of my noggin sits Sally Struthers pitifully imploring me to "Please help save the children." (And the awful, shameful me always thinking, Whoa, Sally, if you'd ease up on the Toaster Strudels, you could save a few right there.)

So, no, I can't spend five hundred dollars for shoes. Guess I'm just too much of a hick. Here's another confession: I don't own a single piece of nipple jewelry.

I read recently where Janet Jackson's personal stylist spent hours perusing nipple jewelry before he found that now-legendary sunburst design that was revealed during the now-legendary Super Bowl halftime show.

Who the hell has enough money to hire someone to shop for her nipple jewelry? It makes me fell downright dowdy for getting excited about finally buying one of those shirts with my initial on it. Shopping for nipple jewelry? Doesn't Janet ever need just, you know, socks?

No comments: