Wrapped in Worry

With age, no doubt, I’ll feel differently. But for now, the process of gift giving parallels the five stages of grief.

Denial: I’ve got plenty of time and plenty of money for all of my holiday shopping.

Anger: Must they repeatedly count down the remaining shopping days? It’s driving me nuts.

Bargaining: That hole on the sleeve may be small, but it upsets the entire balance of the shirt. Can I get it for half off?

Depression: Why bother with gifts anyway. You can’t take them with you when you die. And we’re all gonna die.

Acceptance: It’s the thought that counts.

This is not to suggest that I don’t enjoy giving gifts--I truly do. In fact, trying to figure out what people really want, what they need and what is least likely to offend is both a joy and a challenge.

But for someone who worries incessantly about being misinterpreted or being inadvertently insulting, the whole holiday shopping experience offers its share of stress and anxiety:

Clothing is too personal an item for a female friend, right? But what about socks? They’re not really personal. Or are they? What about socks with jingle bells? No, bells are suggestive. Joke socks with mistle-toes? Yeah, that should work. But will she think I have an eccentric fetish?

How about mom. Not perfume, I’ve done that before (like about 20 of my first 30 holiday gift-giving seasons). Something more original. How about a floral bouquet. But will she be at home when they are delivered? Or will they end up sitting on the porch until the family dog adopts them as his own. I could write a song for mom. What rhymes with mom? Glom, prom, pastram. Then again, there’s always perfume.

Dad? Dad is actually pretty easy. He isn’t easily insulted. Last year even the Mr. Potato Head went over well, but I’d better not push it. A good Stephen King horror book is always a safe bet. I’m not sure if he reads them but just having a copy of “The Shining” or “It” around the house seems to be comforting.

Of course, worry over the holidays begins well before the shopping list is complete.

Part of the stress is trying to figure out who goes on the list. Not her--she didn’t get me anything last year. Not him--he didn’t appreciate what I gave him five years ago. Definitely her--her gift to me last year was twice as expensive as mine to her, so I owe her.

As I look back over the years, I’m not sure all the worrying has been worth the effort. I can’t recall any gifts that seem to have been particularly memorable for their success or failure.

Except for that bottle of wine I gave to a friend who is a recovering alcoholic. Guess I should have mulled that one over a little more.