The Gift
I surrendered to my impulses yesterday. I bought the presents whose purchase I second guessed. I may be late in life but at some point, I figured I needed to start trusting my instincts. Because buying Christmas presents isn’t a mind reading exercise, it’s a small celebration of the act of thinking of someone. Of course, it helps to know if they’re allergic to peanuts or don’t like perfume. But after that it seems to me the world ought to be your oyster.
I’ve also started thinking that presents ought to be almost useful. That’s partly driven by how many knick-knacks I have sitting around, the debris of Christmases past. Little pretty things that sit on shelves and gather dust and mostly mean nothing now, except vague memories, and probably didn’t mean much at the time they were given. A useful gift has a life, like a sweater. You wear it. Think of the gift giver and replace the gift when it grows old. And a sweater might actually be something you could take to your grave if you wanted to be buried in it.
In the end, it’s all about the human connection, and you want people to know you’re trying to find something they’ll like and not just be polite about it. And there has to be something of the giver in the gift because it’s nice to be thought about in a kind and loving way. So, if these gifts don’t work and I end up being the quirky gift giver at least that’s something and maybe they’ll know I tried, which is also something. And finally, I try to remember I can’t make anyone be happy, it’s always their call.