THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, December 24, 1995 TAG: 9512220091
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E2 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY ANN G. SJOERDSMA
LENGTH: Medium: 82 lines
THE RED DRESS was actually a portent, but at the time of its receipt, I chalked it up as a sexy miscalculation driven by male fantasy.
With its spaghetti straps, plunging back- and neck-lines and deep slices up both thighs, this sheer, form-fitting little number was never going to see the light of day with my form fitting it. One plunge, one slice, no spaghetti, maybe . . . but this baby had way too many ``here I am!'' peepholes for my taste, not to mention my body, then a modest 23.
So what was my longtime boyfriend thinking with this babydoll come-on? Previously he'd given me a monogrammed suitcase, a tweed jacket, a two-volume Oxford English Dictionary, for pity's sake, but now, his character analysis gone awry . . . the red dress.
I analyzed the situation - usually a bad idea - and decided that the thought of him wandering about boutiques, imagining me busting-out-all-over as he shopped for his fantasy dress, was my true gift. I thanked him for the dress and hung it up in a closet marked ``oblivion.''
HA! A short time later, the dear boy married a luscious Carmen Miranda centerfold-type who would have split the deep thigh slices of the wretched red dress up the wazoo. To ice the insult, I got one of those ``But this doesn't mean I didn't love you'' letters on the eve of his marriage and thus relived the whole stomach-churning mess.
After a few ill-matched years, though, ``red-hot'' and ``centerfold'' divorced, and when last I heard from my long-ago ex, he was less than happy in a second marriage, convinced that monogamy is impossible for men and interested in meeting me for dinner. Hum, dinner . . . I wonder what I should wear. . . .
Naaaah, good sense prevailed; I didn't vamp him in the red dress. I'm not O. Henry, and this is not ``The Gift of the Magi.'' But it is one of the best Christmas stories I have. I had the pleasure of being Miss Havisham in a tawdry red dress rockin' 'round the Christmas tree. 'Twas love lost, but a story gained.
No matter how you observe Christmas or with whom you share it - or even if you're alone - remember that Christmas is a wonderful time for storytelling. After all, ``The Greatest Story Ever Told'' occurred on this day. I especially enjoy stories of romantic revelation. Even those that begin in pain can become laughers in retrospect.
One year my unlucky-in-love older sister's boyfriend did what many cowardly, uncertain types do around November. He glanced at the calendar and decided, ``Geez, it's almost Christmas, think I'll dump my girlfriend.'' Sis responded by heave-ho-ho-ho'ing an expensive blue monogrammed robe - bought around Labor Day - in his face when he opened his front door. Not only did she have the supreme bad judgment to date the boy literally next door, but after the robe tossing she took to her bed like Blanche DuBois with the vapors. We left morsels of turkey at her bedroom door. (P.S.: She's now married.)
My younger sister, on the other hand, has had only to breathe to produce boyfriends, mostly of the sweet, devoted, sensitive variety. One Christmas she brought such a suitor home to face the critics. I happened to pass her open bedroom door on Christmas eve, see a bed laden with gifts and sneak a peek at the tags. Each was from said suitor and addressed to some ``snookum'' cutie pie or another, a k a my sister. I knew then and there the poor guy was doomed.
Yet another year I invited a boyfriend home for some pre-Christmas fun with the family and one night found myself seated at table for a rousing game of ``Family Feud'' - the home version. My team had won and was engaged in the bonus round when my brother, playing Richard Dawson, posed this question to my honey: ``Name a part of the body that's wrinkled.'' Nary missing a beat, he burst forth with ``scrotum.'' The parental faces froze. The next day, my father asked: ``Are you gonna marry this guy, Ann?''
Heck no, Dad, not after that lame answer. ``Scrotum'' garnered us no points on the ``Feud'' survey.
Until last Christmas, I hadn't thought much about the red dress, which still hangs in my closet, never having been worn, a reminder of romance past. Then a dear colleague, surprised by a gift from me, began probing my taste, and I laughingly told him about the best ``thought'' gift I had ever received.
Later when he handed me the brightly wrapped box, he said: ``To go with your red dress.'' And the lovely gold-chain necklace, which I wear often, certainly does. My story thus found an ending and I found, once again, the joy of telling it. MEMO: Ann G. Sjoerdsma is the book editor for The Virginian-Pilot. by CNB