Baby, It’s Cold Outside.

It was a chilly winter’s eve and I was wearing nothing but my skivvies.

Dressed in a slinky (and rather sheer) pink negligee (which is more than I usually wear to bed), and hair done up in holiday fashion (complete with tinsel bow), I arrived at the Christmas party absolutely freezing, but dressed ever so stylishly for a holiday pajama party.

Though if I were really sticking to what I wear to bed (or don’t wear), it would’ve consisted of a lot less fabric.

But it wasn’t that kind of party.

Joining arms with my gem and tiptoeing over frozen snow, we made our way to the front door, like a scene straight out of a Hallmark movie.

All that was missing was some fresh falling snow.

What greeted us on the inside was a beautifully decorated home, a most welcoming reprieve from the cold outside.

On what felt like day 1,450,600 of negative degree temps (yeah, it’s been a brrrreathtaking one this year), the warmth of our friend’s house felt especially comforting and toasty on this particularly frigid eve.

Especially after the one (or two, three…was it four?) martinis that I nursed that night.

Toasty for sure.

Initially, I went to the party with good responsible intentions.

See, I had work the next morning. Knowing I needed to open up the coffee shop at an atrociously early hour in minus zero degree temps, I showed up to the party with the idea that I would leave at a reasonable time. You know, to get my beauty sleep.

Unfortunately, Father Rumchata had different plans for me.

Verry different plans.

As I went from one martini to the next, all I could think was: that’s the spirit!

Because it was, literally.

The company, the cocktails, the freedom and confidence of rocking an essentially see-through nightgown became more tempting to me than being a proper adult.

And so, as the hours passed and the temperatures dropped as quickly as my inhibitions, it became clear that I was in no position to drive.

Let alone get an early night’s rest.

My gem, the more responsible one at this particular gathering, wound up safely driving me back to his house, where my car sat parked in -18 degrees.

Brr.

After making it inside, I started to joke that I should probably think about getting home.

He sat patiently, grinning at me.

(duh, I was staying)

And like another scene out of that same Hallmark movie, he started to sing a little Christmas ditty.

Maybe you know it:

I really can’t stay

“Baby, it’s cold outside”

I’ve got to go away

“Baby, it’s cold outside”

This evening has been

“Been hoping that you’d dropped in”

So very nice

“I’ll hold your hands they’re just like ice”

In that moment, despite the actual cold my numb nips were feeling, my whole body suddenly got warm.

I don’t know how else to describe it.

See, I grew up watching Hallmark movies like this as a child. I became the biggest hopeless romantic hoping, wishing, and praying that that girl in the movies would someday be me.

And then, in an ordinary moment, after many generous glasses of sweet alcoholic enjoyment, something like this happens and all of a sudden it’s just… better.

I mean, of course it’s better.

Because it’s no longer me longing to be that girl. It’s me being this girl, the star of her very own magical Christmas story.

Uniquely written for just me and him.

Obviously, I didn’t end up going home that night. I think had I been able to, I still would’ve chosen to stay with my gem.

I had everything I needed already there.

My man, to keep me nice and warm.

A place to rest my weary head.

And look at that: I was even wearing pajamas.

Smash.

The party was. a. smash.

We had UNO.

We had punch.

We had cookies, laughter, and fancy cheese to munch.

And then came the actual smash.

It was accidental enough.

There we were, hand washing dishes in the sink. In the midst of handling very old coupe glasses, my gem unexpectedly let slip an old shot glass.

Of course, it shattered.

(lasts 70 years and breaks in my sink)

He looked at me, panic in his eyes.

“Was this vintage?” he asked.

(meaning “was this irreplaceable?”)

I nodded my head.

Uh oh was the look I’d best describe his face.

Normally, I would’ve reacted much different.

But, in the moment, I wasn’t worried.

First of all: it’s a shot glass.

Secondly: though it was vintage, I had purchased it at an antique store and when I bought it, the shot glass was one of three glasses that all came in a set.

Which I knew I could purchase the next day.

Again, I wasn’t worried.

So the next day, my gem and I drove out to said antique store.

Of course, the set had sold.

Irreplaceable shot glass was indeed now irreplaceable.

While my gem frantically searched the internet for a replacement, I started to look around. And as I shopped, I started to add other goodies to my bag.

I found vintage wallpaper, $3 vintage hats, an assortment of antique ornaments to be used for a DIY project, and lastly: an American Girl Doll.

Now, if you don’t know me or my family that well, my mom kind of collects American Girl Dolls.

Rescues them, actually.

Missing limbs, lipstick smeared on faces once loved, and orphan girls without a home, my mom has this passion for salvaging dolls from sad situations.

(which all started when my mom found one in a garage sale and was told the doll would be taken to the dump if not sold by the end of the day)

*gasp!

And I found one, at this antique store while I was supposed to be looking for another shot glass.

I’ll tell ya- I nearly cried when I found her. I knew my mom would be over the moon to add another sister to the growing family of 12.

Sure enough, later that night, my mom met Andy.

(I couldn’t wait until Christmas)

She was ecstatic.

Her reaction was priceless. It was authentic, genuine, and it made my whole day.

Later that night, I looked over and found my gem once again browsing Ebay and Etsy in search of this shot glass. It was here that I shared just how glad I was that he broke it.

Confusion is the look I’d best describe his face.

See, if he hadn’t broken that shot glass, we wouldn’t have gone to Kenai. We wouldn’t have shopped in that antique store, I wouldn’t have found that American Girl Doll, and I would’ve missed out on a moment of joy with my mom.

Looks like broken can actually be a beautiful thing.