So right before my visit to Dr. M, I went to Target to shop for the gift I had to bring to the dice-and-gifts event.
I decided to play it safe and purchase something I’d be happy with, in the event that I ended up going home with whatever I brought.
I selected a pumice scrub and file and a shimmery nail polish, because contrary to some propaganda I read on the label of a beach-themed exfoliant, walking on the shore every day gives one rough calluses, not “soft, smooth, beach-worthy feet.”
I figured a do-it-yourself pedicure made a nice, summer-themed gift. Which brings me to a key point. All previous yuletide connections to said event were merely personal flashbacks to the Women’s Ornament Exchange, a scarring event from my distant past. To paraphrase a common disclaimer in the front matter of novels, any connection to actual events should be considered purely coincidental.
So I wasn’t really expecting a lighted Christmas tree. I didn’t think I’d sit beneath a tinsel-framed window, and I definitely didn’t picture drinking coffee from a Christmas mug. But I did.
It wasn’t until I dried my hands on a Christmas bath towel in the restroom that I realized the Holiday theme was not connected to event, but rather a reflection of the decorating preference of the hostess.
Eerie coincidence aside, I had a wonderful evening, despite the fact that I lost 26 rounds of play—27 if you count the consolation round in the end where all the unclaimed packages are paired with unlucky players. I drew the joker and was stuck with the solitary, unclaimed package.
I took my pedicure kit home, thankful that my calluses were all I needed to smooth over. I may have finished last, but this time I didn’t lose. I’d buy my own gift and play with those gals any day of the week. In fact, my fingernails are looking a little ragged. Maybe they’ll call again soon.