Greetings, ugly sweater wearers.
It’s that time of year again. When leaves fall from the trees and Christmas party Facebook events flood your feed.
When the New Year comes, I’ll retreat to my post at the back of your closet.
But for the month of December, fear me.
For I do Christmas better than anyone else.
My ho-ho-horror is over-the-top and magnificent. I’m as vintage as Grandma’s attic, and then some.
My embellishments are many, nay, infinite. My neckline is lined with tinsel, and someone clearly went to town with a glue gun and tiny ornaments along my sleeves.
Stare deeply into the eyes of my embroidered kitten popping out of a stocking and know the true meaning of the holidays.
No battery-powered lights? Don’t talk to me.
My garishness is so great, Clark Griswold genuflects to me. For I have a matching skirt that is literally a Christmas tree skirt to complete the ensemble.
No joke, it’s epic.
Enter into my domain of stuck-on candy canes and cottonball snowflakes and I shall provide. There will be Michael Buble’s “Christmas” on repeat and peppermint mochas for all in my vicinity. They’re a nice distraction if the sight of me becomes too intense for your weak human eyes.
Compete with me at your own peril, for I have won the office Christmas party ugly sweater contest three years in a row.
Carolers burst into song at my passing and dogs howl at that shamelessly adorable stocking kitten. The scent of pine follows me wherever I go, leaving a trail of pungent merriment in my wake.
I am cozy.
I am crazy.
I am the ugly Christmas sweater.