A lesson in judgment… Under the Christmas Tree.

This past weekend, my birth mother Leesa, sister Sarah, and I participated in an annual ladies and daughters tree-trimming party. The party is hosted by one of Leesa’s friends, and is well attended by a group of professional, dynamic woman. Sarah and I were the new girls, and had no idea what to expect.

The invitation included a request to bring a gift for the Secret Santa exchange—you know the drill… Grab a gift from either under the tree or from someone else’s lap, and hope you end up with something decent, and no life-threatening injuries when the exchange (read: catfight) is over.

Under typical circumstances, I would have had the time and the tools to wrap my contribution nicely at least, with the designer in me adding some extra flare. Leesa wraps her gifts à la Martha Stewart. Nicer, even. Papers used are exquisite, ribbons wired and finger-curled, folds perfectly pressed, and pattern-matched seams concealed with double-sided tape. Immaculate, I tell you. Pristine presents… a shame to unwrap them, really.

My apartment has not yet been stocked with the finer gift wrapping supplies to disguise anything other than the occasional child’s birthday gift. No boxes, brightly coloured paper from IKEA, cheesy ribbon scraps, and shiny sticky tape from Dollarama. I did the best I could with what I had on hand.

I went in with a sense of humour that my gift would be the booby prize, and laughed when Leesa asked “Is *that* your Secret Santa gift? You’re kidding…”

As each gift was laid under the tree, I sank a little lower in my seat. Yep, my gift truly was the ugly duckling. The others were daintily designed, appropriately adorned, perfectly polished. Even the gift bags, which I typically despise, were dressed for the occasion. It was unlike me to bring such an eyesore, and I was embarrassed.

As each guest drew their name, a gift was taken from under the tree. First, the pretty silver box with green ribbon. Then, the little metallic number... My gift was soon the last one under the tree. Now though, guests had the choice to select *it*, or steal from another person. So they stole. Wow.

Suddenly, my embarrassment turned to fascination. The situation became a study in behaviour and judgment. My gift was avoided and ridiculed. Left on the side of the field while the rest of the team was picked. Finally, because nobody wanted to go home empty-handed, my gift was chosen, and yes… even unwrapped, as all eyes observed each rip and tear, curious to see what could possibly be inside.

The recipient was not disappointed. She would be taking home two sage green heart-shaped side dishes. The appropriate “ooohs” and “ahhhs” ensued, and their former exterior ugliness forgiven, or at least forgotten.

Amazing how, in a room otherwise filled with sophistication and class, so much judgment existed.