I’m the world’s worst gift-giver. If giving horrible gifts was an Olympic sport, I would have so many gold medals, I would need a storage unit. We could walk around my house, and I would proudly bluster, “See, that six-slot toaster? Gold medal. See that oven mitt with a picture of Dorothy saying “There’s no place like home?” Gold medal. That certificate for a cemetery plot? Gold medal.
But no need to take my word for it. Ask April. She’d say my horrible gift-giving is a Christmas tradition.
It was Christmas Eve in 1983. Approximately 9:00 PM. Finally, the time to Christmas shop had arrived. That particular year I focused on Shopko as my store. I planned to buy April shimmery, satiny sleepwear. We’ll leave it at that, but that decision started me on the path to one of my first theoretical Olympic gold medals.
There are numerous places I refuse to enter, and one of them is the women’s department of any store. If that’s the only path available, I shield my eyes and dash through as quickly as possible. Therefore, to accomplish this particular plan, I plotted how to enter the ladies department, make my choice of shimmery, satiny sleepwear, and get out. First, I shopped elsewhere, searching for large objects like boxes of family-size Tide. It would take years to use up that much laundry detergent, but it was important to my plan.
With loaded cart, I paused at the edge of the women’s department. Making sure no woman was in the vicinity, I made my dash. I quickly scanned the available possibilities of shimmery, satiny sleepwear. Finally, I spotted one. Definitely shimmery and satiny! Lifting it from the rack, I buried it under the boxes of Tide and spurred my cart onward.
I felt good at that point, but I was only in my early twenties at the time, so what did I know? I pushed the cart to the check-out, choosing one at the end because the clerk was an elderly woman with a kind face. Shoppers were scattered in the other check-out lanes. My plan was operating like a well-oiled machine.
Up until the elderly, kind-faced woman lifted the shimmery, satiny sleepwear from the cart. I suspect if she sung in a choir, she would be a bass. Her booming bass voice thundered throughout the store with a “Lookie what we have here!” She raised that garment high above her head. Curiosity grabbed the entire store population, and when they investigated, they saw shimmery, satiny sleepwear swishing through the air like an American flag.
Despite my reddened face, which was buried into my shopping cart as if hunting for a contact lense, a sense of satisfaction rolled over me. If that kind-faced elderly woman with a bass voice was impressed with my purchase, then mission accomplished. But I was only in my early twenties, so what did I know?
Once I arrived at home, I wrapped up that precious jewel of a Christmas gift find. I use the phrase ‘wrapped up’ loosely. Not only am I a horrible gift-giver, but wrapping paper confuses me. I can never calculate the exact amount to use. Once I wrap a gift, it has so many patches it looks like an Andy Warhol modern art sculpture. Being able to wrap presents and also create abstract art is kind of a gift.
Christmas morning finally arrived. Of course, I made April open the special package from Shopko last. It represented the pinnacle moment of this particular Christmas. She did, and I can express her reaction in two words: Raised eyebrow. Not what I was expecting. I was expecting something along the lines of the kind-faced, elderly woman with the bass voice. Instead, April’s raised eyebrow said something like, “Not in a million years.”
If you’re a twenty-something husband, learn these lessons. First, your wife will never appreciate you choosing her shimmery, satiny sleepwear. Stick to useful things like waffle irons and vacuum cleaners. And never ever venture into the women’s department of any store anywhere and buy something. Just don’t. If you do, you’ll regret it at the check-out counter.