I started out Christmas Eve morning with snapping at Chef, aka The Boyfriend. Like most computer geeks, he is concerned with my limited ability to navigate the Net and offers little suggestions, like getting a Hangout account, or trying more complicated passwords. Being an old and tired person, I poo-poo a lot of what he has to say, only to turn shrew when I can't remember a password and am unable to retrieve it because I foolishly moved to another country, switched browsers AND changed my phone number. I already had a headache when I woke up this morning, having spent a nightmarish broken sleep in which my worse imaginings were brooding and lurking, namely, that the "joke" gift he put in my stocking is indeed the ONLY thing he's giving me for Christmas. OK, he supports me at this time and he's offered to buy new tires for the car I drive, but this is probably one of the things that clearly marks our differences: I believe in gifts, stuff you can unwrap, and he thinks a candy bar with hazelnuts (which I'm allergic to) given a month after the day counts as a lovely birthday gift. (Granted, he also gave me a card, also one month after the day. The card was sweet--it would have just meant so much more if it had arrived in a timely manner and I hadn't had to cry to get it.) For the record, in his defense, he did buy me a birthday cake from a very good place and didn't complain too much when I chose one that was pink. Is it churlish of me to mention that I had been looking forward to making one myself?
In Girl Land, a place I rest my soul in, boyfriends may give only one gift but at least it's wrapped and thoughtfully chosen. It doesn't have to be expensive (I am forbidden from even joking about pretty sparkly things) and I have resisted peeking in that stocking to see what is in there. I fear it is a Dollar Store purchase. I am proud of my noble choice to eschew peeking, while I am very sad that any part of my brain is actually concerned about this. What if it is truly crap and I open it in front of his kid and burst into tears? Or worse, get angry and silent because anything I say will be fight fodder for life?
I know a lot of guys just don't get the whole gift-giving thing. Chef himself has suggested that I return the gifts I give him and "give the money to the poor." Who thinks like that? Wasn't our leftover Halloween candy enough? (Kidding: I have donated many household things Chef doesn't like to several organizations.) I've been gathering little things for him, magpie-like, for months. If he mentioned he wanted to try a certain spice, I bought it. If he needed an item of clothing, I looked around to match his specifications. Gifts are a physical reminder that we do indeed pay attention. I love pink, I love Hello Kitty, I have marked preferences in perfume. Not hard to shop for. So why am I so afraid that this dear, thoughtful, gentle man is going to give me a cheap wrench? And worse--why the hell does it bother me so much?
