When you are eight years old, winning an award is a big deal. My particular accolade didn’t come from coloring the best turkey at school or memorizing the most verses at church. Instead, I got first prize for the best outfit at a tacky party.
Mama was the only one in our family who was actually invited to this Christmas party. Her Sunday School class, consisting of other middle-aged women, planned it as an alternative to their usual progressive dinner. I think most of the ladies were dieting that year and assumed this to be a way to cut down on their menopausal calorie intake. My fifty-six pounds attended because I went everywhere with my mother.
I’d arrived late in her life, as pregnancies go. The first doctor diagnosed me as a severe tumor, while the second diagnosed me as a grave mistake. I was always the only child at Neva’s Beauty Shop on Mama’s Tuesday morning appointment and the only preschool member at the Women’s Missionary Auxiliary on Wednesdays. I usually represented everyone under forty at all McAdoo socials since my Mama didn’t believe in paid babysitters.
The tacky party caused quite a stir in our small, rural area. A precursor to today’s ugly sweater affairs, it was modeled after a big city event someone read about in a newsy letter. Hosted in the only two-story home within a twenty-five-mile radius, the celebration highlighted hors d’ oeuvres, a fancy French word translated to mean “stuff piled on crackers.”
But I digress.
My mother, who placed a high value on matching shoes and handbag, took several days to pick out the most outlandishly clashing blouse to “not go” with her floral double-knit pants. When she settled on an orange and lime-checked turtleneck, she began her search for jewelry. A firm advocate of 1 Peter 3:3 (King James Version), Mama had to borrow a gaudy necklace from Aunt Lizzy.
Once Mama was satisfied with her ensemble, she turned to mine. I wouldn’t have blinked if Mama had suggested I wear my new, hot pink fishnet hose. In my mind, they made me look just like British supermodel Twiggy.
But we weren’t talking fishnet. We were talking control-top. Mama’s idea was that I pull one leg of the stockings over my head. “It will distort your face, and no one will know who you are,” Mother coerced. I kinda doubted this statement since I would be the shortest person there.
I don’t remember the rest of my outfit that night. But I do remember standing on Billie Hickman’s porch with half a pair of Hanes stretched over my head. It was a bit uncomfortable, but the guests’ reaction was worth it.
As I think back, I realize their praise had more to do with my being the youngest at the party than what I wore. Yet I still remember how thrilled I was at being number one. That evening, I returned home the proud winner of a spring-action tissue holder in baby blue vinyl.
I must confess to you that I have won the tacky contest more than once in my lifetime. Not one with clashing clothes or a stocking head, but the one where my lips erupted my heart without thinking first. There is no joy in taking home this prize. When tackiness causes a wounded heart or broken relationships, there is no thrill in being number one.
As Christmas approaches, I’m praying that my first tacky championship won’t be a repeat. This is an award that I have won far too many times in my lifetime. Maybe none of us will get it this year.