Today is Christmas Eve. Last night I had a dream in which I was strolling through a luxury department store in a grand shopping mall, say, Nordstrom or Neiman’s. A sharp-dressed stylist suddenly appeared in front of me. He pointed at me and said, “You’re wearing Marchesa. You must be rich.” As I recount this dream, I’m struck by the fact that I dreamt of a designer who exists, but who I’ve not thought much about. The name Marchesa has never been a name I’ve uttered, and Marchesa’s designs are none that I’ve spent any amount of time thinking about. The sharp-dressed man ushered me away to a different designer’s displays and collections. He told me the name of the designer I was to dress myself in quickly, but it’s not a name that remained once I awoke. It’s occurred to me now that I’ve left out a detail. In the dream, I am not aware of what I’m wearing until he points his finger at me, in the way that people who perceive themselves as important and fancy, do. Suddenly, I look down at myself, and I see that I’m adorned in expensive clothes, clothes I’d never really desire to claim, or to wear. I’m also aware of the impracticality of the top that I’m wearing, with short straps that rest off the shoulder, and that the top drapes low across my chest. Periodically I have to hoist the top up so that it doesn’t expose my breasts, and each time I do, I wonder if I’ve embarrassed myself to such an extent that the sharp-dressed man won’t deign to dress me in his clothes anymore. There’s another thought that plagues me throughout the dream. That he only chooses me because I look like I am a person of money. What if he finds out that I’m not a person of money, what then? As I agonize over this possibility, I look down at the floor, and it is only then that I notice that I’m wearing bright orange sneakers, sneakers that I’m surprised haven’t given me away yet. I am in the middle of hair and makeup when I wake, and I have no real awareness of what the sharp-dressed man ends up choosing for me to wear. In the afternoon after the dream, I type Marchesa into the search box on Google, and see nothing that resembles what I remember in the dream. Marchesa website is filled to the brim with delicate dresses cluttered with rose petals. In the dream, I am most definitely wearing separates that are embroidered with silver sequins and sheer material. What sits with me the most about the dream, though, is the feeling of being found out, how extraordinary I feel to be chosen, how inevitable I feel to be discovered a fraud, and pushed to the side. It occurs to me, then, not only that this is the tension I always feels when I wear anything fancy—sparkly shoes, seersucker bow ties, exquisite gowns—but how similarly I feel when it comes to holiday and the concept of home. How hard it is to feel that I am one with home, and yet how hard it is to not try to claim it for myself, anyway.