Christmas usually brings warm memories for most people. Visions of children with toys, good food, families gathering together, and rounds of festive parties. Which brings me to an event I'll never forget.
My husband came home and gave me five days notice that we were invited to a formal affair at a small, exclusive country club. Since my normal attire was jeans, knit shirt, and tennis shoes, I went into a sort of panic. The fact that I hadn't worn heels in a very long time was enough to send me over the edge. But I took a deep breath, gathered my senses, and headed for the mall. I knew there'd be a lot of shoppers, but what greeted me was overwhelming. There was a sea of people. I could barely see the racks of clothes for all the humanity in various shapes, sizes and ages. My first thought was whether anyone ever worked any more. Where did they all come from?
Determined, I pressed on. Having gained a lot of weight didn't help my self-esteem and learning to close my eyes and sail right past the junior department was quite a milestone in my life. As time marched on, so did my weight and now I needed to go past the women's sizes—all the way to plus. If you've never compared junior styles with those in the plus section, I can tell you the choice is narrowed greatly as sizes increase. I searched through what limited supply the first store had and found nothing I'd wear. Why on earth would they make a formal in size 18 with a huge red abstract design on a beige background? Did I want to look like a barn that needed painting?
About that time, something hit my knees from behind and knocked me into a table holding underwear that looked as if a scissor happy person had attacked it, cutting out the back, leaving only a string, and the store wanted to sell the thing? Talk about uncomfortable. But I grabbed the table and turned around to see a mother with a huge baby stroller shoving another woman to get to a gaudy, iridescent pink dress. I was trapped between them and the contraption holding a screaming baby. My head started to throb, and I was seriously considering dropping to the floor and crawling between the racks to get away from the insane women when a manager appeared and tried to intervene in the struggle. He moved them a little to the right and I was able to push the carriage aside and escape.
Every major department store seemed to hold the same scene, women yelling at each other, fighting over the same item, and men nonchalantly looking off into space. Children screaming, crying, running and spreading germs, and all I wanted was one basic party dress, preferably slimming black.
Every inch of each store was filled, and people were furiously grabbing clothes, small appliances, toys, and tools. They were Christmas shopping! Mine had all been done by the first week in October. Why, I wondered, had all these people waited until the last minute to do theirs? After all this was the first week in December. And I was in a snit because I only had five days to find a dress. Okay, I'll admit it. I'm Type A, a little anal retentive, and my daughter says I'll plan my funeral two weeks in advance so I won't be late. This crowd was definitely getting to me.
Off to the next store. It was a tiny little shop nestled among the name brand stores, but I could actually see some of the clothes because there weren't too many people milling around. I ducked through the doorway and stood for a minute at the end of a rack of clothes to catch my breath. That's when I noticed I was in a plus size store! I didn't have to go past all the neat clothes to get to my size. They would all fit me!
A model-thin salesperson walked up to me. With a cheery smile and an outstretched hand, she purred, "Hi, I'm Emily. May I help you find something?"
You'd think in a big girl's shop, they'd hire an overweight woman. But not so. I swallowed hard and told her I needed a formal.
She stepped back and said, "Let me look at you."
Have you ever felt as if you had been undressed in public? I felt embarrassment redden my face and fought the inclination to hold my hands in front of me as cover. The thought ran through my mind that I'd just tell my husband I was getting sick and forego the party, but I knew it was important to him, so I endured her scrutiny. I had to have a dress. After a minute or two, she spoke.
"You have beautiful eyes, great skin, and a soft, voluptuous figure that exudes femininity. I think I know just the gown for you. Follow me."
I looked at the creation draped over Emily's arm. No one had ever paid me such a compliment, but I knew it was just a sales pitch. I felt sick. "I could never wear something that sheer and revealing. "I was thinking of something in black with a jacket."
"Oh, no. That would be too matronly for you."
"My dear, I am a matron."
"Just try it on, please?"
I slipped into the deep purple, halter style, chiffon gown. Tiny beads scattered among multi layers of the dress winked at me even in the dim light of the dressing room. The cut of the dress accentuated my figure, shaving off at least twenty pounds. Looking in the full-length mirror, I felt beautiful and had to have this dress no matter what it cost.
Emily looked at me, and her eyes misted. "See, I told you, you'd look gorgeous. How I wish I could gain weight and look as feminine as you. You remind me of how Marilyn Monroe looked in that white gown standing on the grate. I've always felt like a boy with nubbins instead of a woman with real boobs! You are so lucky."
Need I tell you I no longer noticed the crowds, my frustration vanished, my pounding head stopped hurting, and I floated out of the mall feeling like a Hollywood diva. Sales pitch or not, it didn't matter.
When I appeared before my husband on the eve of the party, he gasped and took a step backward.
"Have you lost weight? You look absolutely ravishing."
Who would have thought a dress could transform someone so completely? I smiled as we left for the country club.
Being somewhat shy and always self-conscious, I generally cling to my husband and endure whatever party we have to attend. But that night I felt bold and elegant. I even mingled a bit with some of the women who were gathered around a lovely fountain decorated with pots of Poinsettias far enough away from the music to talk.
A man came up, introduced himself to us and asked one of the ladies to dance.
As they moved toward the dance floor, another woman turned to me and said, "Watch him. He's a real Casanova."
I was apparently next on his list of ladies to grace with his presence, and since I couldn't think of a way to refuse him graciously, I found myself in his arms. The man seemed to have four feet. He stepped on my toes and scraped my heels. How he performed such a feat was beyond me. He must have weighed 300 pounds, and I had on open-toed sandals. When he started with foul language and obscene remarks, I broke away from him and headed to the punch bowl. I saw my husband from the corner of my eye and turned toward him, giving him signals that I needed rescuing since my dance partner was hot on my heels.
"Hey, Baby, you sure can move when you want to. Slow down and at least let me get you some punch."
His hand touched my waist and started creeping up to where my back was bare. I did everything I could to move away from him, but he kept getting closer. He got us a cup of punch and handed me a plate for goodies that were displayed on a lovely table. I took a slice of a cheese roll shaped like a wreath and some crackers. A few nuts, some mints, a little sausage dip, and stuffed jalapeño peppers completed my selection. At that moment, my husband walked up, and I took a very relieved breath.
(Here I want the guy to grab at you. Obviously. So your husband will have more reason to be enraged)
Fortunately for me, I had been keeping an eye on Mr. Ladies Man. When he saw my husband approaching, he got flustered, started to move closer, but slipped still holding his filled cup. His free hand flailed in my direction, but my reflexes took over. Even though I dodged him, some of the fruit punch hit my dress. I was horrified. My beautiful dress. Someone handed me a towel to soak up the punch.
(Okay, here I want you to see what happens not just hear. Look up. And tell me how glad you are.)
After a few seconds, I heard the sound of fist and face connecting. My sweet husband had just fought for my honor! That's very unlike him and I felt my heart burn with pride.
It was then that he took the towel and wiped blood from my chest. The Casanova's free hand had scratched me from below my throat down my chest into my cleavage, and my burning heart was actually a stinging wound.
"No one touches my woman," my husband said and put his coat around me.
"I felt very feminine, desirable and embarrassed at the whole incident, but the food was great, the music divine, and my dress still hangs in my closet. And it's almost like a Christmas present that keeps on giving. That night was a turning point in which I learned to live with the body I've been given, love with the heart that God made, and rest comfortably with the woman my husband was in love with.

Lanna Richards is author of Heart of Stones.