A Holiday Surprise
By Chris
Sherman
After you’ve been married a
number of years, holiday gift-giving changes. In the beginning it’s a covert
operation, each partner trying to out-surprise the other. There are the hiding games, the saving
the best gift for last and the squeals of delight.
Now, after
27 years of marriage, it’s more like my husband gets up from the couch on
December 23 and says, “Whaddaya want for Christmas…I’m goin’ to the store.” Gee…would
that be Walgreen’s or Rite Aid?
And why doesn’t
he know what I would like? I know what he likes: briefs and not boxers, Burberry
cologne—not Burberry Brit, polo shirts with no logo stitched on the left. (And
good luck trying to find them. Polo shirts without logos do not exist. Status is not a quiet thing.) I want him
to know me so well, he should be able to take one look at me across the dinner
table and say to himself: That woman needs new black ankle boots.
I never ask
what he would like. I am the detective wife, looking for signs and signals. His
bike seat is wearing thin, his boar’s hairbrush bristles are falling out, he admires
a certain pair of shoes in a store window. (That never really happens, but I
wish it would.) I throw myself out
into the fray of holiday shopping; armed with mental notes of things I know he
would appreciate receiving. I will return home triumphant, laden with gifts
that will be sure to prompt the response, “How did you know?”
But not my
guy. Every year, it’s like he just
met me last week and has no idea in the world what I might like. Each December he starts from scratch,
like I’m some new woman he just met through a friend of a friend and he knows
he should somehow acknowledge me for the holiday, but he’s not sure if just a
card is enough or should he go all out and get me a sweater.
In years
past, I would drop hints like anvils over his head, giving him every
opportunity to “surprise” me. “Oh!
This bracelet is so outdated!” Or, “Aren’t Uggs just so practical. If I had a
pair I could just slip them on… And warm too. My feet are always cold…” And what
do I open on Christmas morning after all those hints I’ve been dropping? Well,
let’s see; there was the scarf that doubled as a hood, there was the gift
certificate to a mozzarella making class, Britney Spears cologne, a fifty color
eye shadow kit that came in a miniature suitcase and then there was the year he
declared that our love transcended all material things and we gave each other
nothing.
Last year,
as it came near the holidays, I was not leaving anything to chance. I really
wanted a pair of diamond earrings. Now before you give me the speech about how
there are people starving on the Upper East Side since Elaine’s closed, let me
say that I just wanted little chips.
Nothing too big or expensive. Just a little bling for the holidays. For heaven’s sake, my son’s girlfriend
has a pair and she’s not even 20 years old. I don’t think it’s unreasonable for
a woman of my age to have some nice earrings. (All my other earrings come from
those costume jewelry stores that are cropping up all over. You know the ones,
with walls lined with earrings and necklaces and that waif of a girl that
follows you around gripped with fear that you will steal something.)
So around
September, I started dropping the hints. “You know, Hubby, I’ve always wanted a
small pair of diamond earrings. They go with everything, but oh well.”
Then
October rolled in and I’m with him at Home Depot on 23rd St. (he’s always in a good mood there) and
I say, “Did you see that woman’s
diamond earrings? They sure were beautiful… But, oh well.”
November
brought a nip to the air as yet another hint floated on the breeze, I was
putting on my hat to go outside and I exclaimed to myself for all the world to
hear, “These damn cheap hoop earrings
are always catching on everything!”
He says, “Throw them out.”
I say, “But
what would I replace them with? I heard that diamond studs don’t catch on anything…But, oh well.”
So now it’s
Christmas morning. I have laid the groundwork. I couldn’t have been clearer. Diamond
earrings. I am confident as I condescend
to open all the “warm-up” presents. I just know he is saving the best for
last. I play along, opening a
French coffee press and a faux alligator eyeglass case, but really, I’m busting.
Then he
finally hands me a very small, beautifully wrapped box. Yes! I think. He’s
got it! He understood! No one has to build a house on this smart guy! I make
small exclamations of delight. “What
could this be? Why, I’m completely stymied…”
I tear the paper, preparing my facial muscles
for my look of mock surprise. I catch my breath. And there, staring back at me
is the utter and complete representation of all I mean to my husband; the
symbol of his love and devotion, not just at holiday time, but every day of our
married lives.
A bar of lavender
soap.
“From France!” he points out proudly.
Ooo. La.
La.
But hey, it’s
really not about the earring or the Uggs. It’s more about him paying attention
and putting some effort in. When we were first married, the gifts were not
expensive, but they meant the most to me.
It was knowing that he put time and care into planning and shopping and
sneaking through my closet to find my size. The thought, the trouble, and let’s
face it, the suffering. (Yes, I want him to suffer.) I think this year I’ll get him a Polo shirt. The one with the
BIG horse on it. It may not be what he wants, but, oh well. Think of his surprise!
Happy Holidays!
