a present conundrum

It's not that I don't like giving presents; it's just that I have a very difficult time doing something because someone tells me I'm supposed to do it. Even if that someone is not so much a someone as she is a millennia-old hag of cultural tradition. I do like giving presents, but when it suits me to express my love, admiration, respect or congratulations. And not so much when the numerals on the calendar tap their little watches at me as if to say, "I've been standing here on September 12th (or December 25th or March 8th or whenever. . .) all year long. You've had plenty of time. You knew I was coming. What has been so very important to you that you couldn't run to the mall and pick me up a pair of nice warm socks?!

And therein lies the rub. I mean, I LOVE a new pair of socks. But does everyone else? "Weirdo," they might say, "who do you think you are -- my mother?!" And then knowing that their mother buys their socks for them, I wonder what else their mother buys for them -- their underwear? Their groceries? Their sex toys? And then I'm completely obsessed with the idea that they are in an unhealthily co-dependent relationship with their mother and I'm freaked out and I can't be friends with them anymore and I disappear without a trace from the shortlist of their caller ID and they never know why.

Of course... I kid. Everyone loves socks. So that will never happen.

Regardless, I do have small panic attacks around what to buy people when under the gun to buy something. I think my problem is that I think a gift should be more than a gift, it should be a thing that says in one gorgeously bow wrapped package how much you as a person respect, love, admire and KNOW the other person. And I don't know if that's possible when you must seek it out and find it. It's better when you come across it by happy coincidence. Because you're out and about and thinking about someone and you're walking by a store or down an aisle and this little objet d'perfection catches your eye with what appears to be an unearthly glow and whispers, Hey, don't you think Anna would just adore me?! And you agree and you buy it, even though her birthday isn't for another seven months.

And that would work, but I have a hard time holding onto something for seven months. And why should I? It's perfect now. So, why wait? It would, in fact, be selfish of me to wait, when she can use and enjoy it now! Besides, if I do wait I'll forget I have it and will find it four years later when cleaning out that closet where I stashed it for safe-keeping and think this would have been the perfect gift for Anna, except that I'd forgotten about it, given her socks instead, got freaked out by her co-dependence with her mother and no longer speak with her.

My friend Esther has it down to a science. She's got a standard gift appropriate for every given event. For example, on a birthday, you get clothes, usually a blouse -- exactly like the one she's also bought for herself. And more specifically, exactly like the one she's wearing when she hands you the box. She's modeling it as if to say, "Now eesn't thees the most best geeft ever? Luke at how great eet lukes?!" Actually, there's no 'as if.' She'll actually say the words. And no lie. It is the most best gift ever! And it does look great. And because she's a fabulously hip, stylish Latin hottie, you feel a little like you're channeling her fabulosity every time you wear it out. (Though, of course, never when you know you'll be around her.) Or for wedding showers, you get an olive boat. I'm really jealous of the olive boat. I don't know why, maybe because I just like saying 'olive boat' and would love getting lots of little thank you cards that say, "We absolutely LOVE the olive boat. Our gravy boat is a little jealous, but we're working through it as a family." Or maybe because every time someone says 'olive boat,' I picture the olives rowing like tiny ivy-league oarsmen on a glassy lake reflecting the autumnal sky, pimentos popping from exertion.

Olive boat.

I can't compete with the olive boat! Because it's not just an olive boat -- it's a whole thing. It's so indicative of Esther and what she brings to any group. . . comfort and luxury and grace and whimsy. Even in their standard natures her blouses and olive boats so disgustingly capture her desire to share that comfort and luxury and grace and whimsy with you. It's so perfect, it makes me want to throw up olives. Into olive boats.

Now. You may be saying that I'm making this too hard. Why not just go out and buy the lovely gift certificate? Right. And then the onus is on the giftee to buy the perfect present for themselves! Well, that's just mean, if you ask me. I feel a HUGE DEGREE OF PRESSURE when trying to spend a gift certificate. It should be something special. Something I keep and treasure and fawn over and pet unconsciously while on the phone or reading a book. It can't ever be something plebian and necessary like I would typically buy. So I generally don't. I've got a veritable collage of them tacked with little magnets to my refrigerator, which occasionally I'll rifle through to buy a gift for someone else. And then I feel a little guilty -- it's like regifting by proxy or something. So no. No gift certificates from me.

Needless to say, around gift-giving time, I get stuck. And then I get resentful. And I procrastinate so that the gift is really super lame or alternately I spend way too much money on something SUPER amazing as if the money spent can hide the fact that I resent the hell out of this obligatory purchase. The obligation to buy gifts on certain dates sounds to me like a sweating drill sergeant shouting, "SHOW ME THE LOVE, MAGGOT!!" at the back of my head. Only it's in my head. And I HATE the drill sergeant almost as much as I LOVE the person for whom I'm supposed to be buying a gift. It's a conundrum.

And it's a conundrum that seems to be coming up more and more often. Everything requires a gift: birthdays, holidays, dinner parties, wedding showers, bar-b-ques, baby showers, thank-God-I'm-divorced parties, house warmings, promotions, bachelorette soirees. I even once went to a pet funeral. I don't kid.

The truth is I'd rather express my affection through the nice dinner for two or by writing the heartfelt letter/card or by being the one who you know you can call when your car breaks down. That is friendship to me. And there's nothing I can give you or you can give me that comes taped in a box or wrapped in a bow that matches it.

So, do me a favor. Call me the next time your ass gets thrown in jail at 3 in the morning. I'll be there with a hot cup of coffee, bail money and a hug. But then on the fourth anniversary of your dog's vasectomy, please don't hate me for showing up empty handed.