Tis The Gift To Be Simple

Despite my sweaty palms and racing heart I clutched the microphone as if I had a magnet in my hand, and belted out my solo part to Simple Gifts. That was in the seventh grade. The Second and Santa Claus both have birthdays which are rapidly approaching. A few weeks ago I decided that I wanted to get them something, but I'm still not quite sure what.

Generally I'm much better at giving gifts than receiving them, yet there is something about shopping for men in particular, that leaves me full of apprehension and dread. I like to believe that because I know them well I would do a good job making my individual selections, yet I'd proven myself wrong in that department before, so who am I trying to fool?

I'd just returned from Thanksgiving break which I'd spent in South Carolina with Rachel and Ronald. As tradition demands we'd drug ourselves out of bed at the crack of dawn to hit the Black Friday door-buster sales. Thus I was not surprised when I found myself lugging twice as much stuff up the 3 flights of stairs to my dorm room in Thatcher Hall.

Tucked neatly inside one of my suitcases was a crimson red, silk necktie, that seemed to call to me from the rack on which it hung. While waiting in line to make my purchase I closed my eyes and could almost see his face. He was smiling at me. And it was almost as if I was dreaming in black and white because all I could see was the brilliance of that tie, and how it seemed to compliment his sheer existence. I was pleased with myself.

In the midst of studying for finals I managed to find the time to make several trips to various craft stores in search of the perfect tissue paper and ribbon. Sitting at my desk one evening I carefully folded the tie and placed it in the little green box I'd made with Rachel's mom. I secured the lid in place with gold ribbon and stepped back to look at what I'd accomplished. It was almost too pretty to open.

A week and a half later, as I prepared to travel to Pennsylvania for Christmas break, I took the little green box out of my closet, and along with a stack of loaner books, headed to his house. I was cold and rainy. He was tying his shoes when I knocked on the door, which communicated that he did not intend on our visit being long. I handed him the books, the little green box balanced on top. "What's this?" he asked. "It's for you." I replied with one hand on the doorknob.

As I drove away I felt proud of myself. He'd rejected me repeatedly but my spirit was far from weakened. The day before I departed for home the phone rang. It was him. What followed was a pathetic attempt to choke back laughter, intermingled with words of supposed thanks for a gift too simple. He never wore that tie. He couldn't have hurt me more than if he had spit in my face. We didn't speak to each other after that.

That was the last time I ever bought a gift for a man, except my dad of course, who would've never laughed at me, even if I'd presented him with a sack full of dog crap.

People often try to justify their ungratefulness by saying, "It was the thought that counts." But this went far beyond a cliche. I'm not saying that a necktie is anything to get particularly excited about. That, in and of itself is rather cliche. But there was so much of my soul in that little green box, something far more priceless and even beautiful. Perhaps had he known me at all he would've seen that. So I suppose it's not what you give that matters, but why you're giving a gift in the first place. For me it's never been an obligation. The calendar doesn't dictate what I do for the people I love.

Yet none of this makes it any more clear what I should buy. Sigh. . . .