The Ugly Christmas Sweater Contest

Grapevine, Texas advertises itself as the Christmas Capitol of Texas. The town is adrift in lights, if not snow. The hotel we stayed at is a real Christmas attraction with a train set in the lobby, a holiday show, and other activities. At this time of year, it’s also a hot spot for businesses holding their year-end conferences.

As my wife and daughter and I wandered the lobby one day, we noticed some of the conference attendees wearing the tackiest holiday sweaters we had ever seen. One of them even cornered us in the elevator, and wouldn’t let us out until she had turned her sweater on to show us how it flickered. She prattled on about her company’s ugly Christmas sweater contest, while I held Colleen close and guarded against any sudden moves.

Stopping for coffee, I waited in line ahead of two older woman. When I glanced backwards, I spied a giant gingerbread man trapped within the weave of a cotton-rayon blend waving his brown paw at me: a classic ugly Christmas sweater. I was jealous. I had to say something. “That’s a great sweater,” I said. The ugly Christmas sweater is one of the few garments that receives compliments on its garity.

“Thank you. I made it myself.” She arched back and pulled the flaps of her jacket open to provide a full display.

I blurted out the next sentence without thinking. The syllables just crept up my esophagus, crossed my larynx, sauntered across my tongue, and exited my mouth making word-like sounds before I knew it. “Were you in the ugly sweater contest?” I asked. “‘Cause that’s a winner.”

Her face caved. She let go of the flaps and the gingerbread monster disappeared. I could sense the earth slow on its axis. The clues began to add up. At long last, the years spent with my nose buried in the pages of The Hardy Boys Detective Handbook paid off. The realization sunk in: this had not been an entry.

“No.” The monosyllabic response is always indicative of a certain degree of hostility.

“Oh,” I said, always ready with a quick-witted reply. I wanted to add to that bit of genius, but my vocal cords rejected the attempt. I decided the best thing to do was to turn around and bear the stings of the two women’s brutal glares. I corralled my lattes and left.

Was she putting me on? Do members of the human race, Homo erectus, wear these sweaters and imagine they’re beautiful? How do you know the difference between the ugly Christmas sweaters and every other sweater?