I get chewed out the first time around Thanksgiving.
“Why did you buy that?” my wife asks me. “You should have put that on your Christmas list.”
I’m not supposed to buy myself anything within eight weeks of December Twenty-Fifth.
“That is soooo inconsiderate,” she says. “Someone could have gotten that for you.”
At issue was a package of v-neck tee shirts I’d ordered from Amazon.
I’d been struggling for the past year to find exactly the right brand of tee shirt.
And that bothered me, because I’d reached a point in my life at which I should have already committed to a certain brand—my brand.
I’d cycled between Calvin Klein, Jockey, and a couple of other labels I’d read about in The Wall Street Journal.
Yes, The Journal occasionally has articles on high-end underwear.
Because people like me are interested in that stuff.
Anyway.
Not even the more expensive brands fit me just right.
So, during a visit to the Naval Academy’s Midshipmen Store while I was in Annapolis for a football game, I picked up a package of old-school Hanes tee shirts.
They were same I’d worn under my Summer Working Blues when I was a midshipman.
And, it turned out, some thirty years later, they fit perfectly.
They were exactly what I’d been looking for.
So, when I got home, I ordered another package.
And now I’m a Hanes tee shirt guy.
Which should have been cause for celebration.
I’d come full circle in my choice of undershirts.
Aren’t you happy for me? I ask my wife. Why can’t you just be happy for me?
Finding those Hanes tee shirts in the Midstore had been a triumph, I tell her.
“You’re a jackass,” she says.
But this is underwear, I argue.
Do you really expect people to buy me underwear for Christmas?
“You just need to think about someone other than yourself,” she scolds me.
And so, I’m in trouble.
Like I am every year.
Now, I’m not a child of the Great Depression or anything like that.
I didn’t grow up wondering where my next meal was coming from.
And I recognize how lucky I am not to have had such worries.
I am eternally grateful to my parents for having provided for my siblings and me.
We always wanted for something, like most kids, but needed for nothing.
And that was no small thing during the recession of the early Eighties.
Still, there were plenty of things I was sure I desperately needed but had to do without.
Air Jordans. Levi’s jean jacket. Vuarnet sunglasses. Mongoose BMX bike.
And, as a result, I looked forward to the day when I could buy myself whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted it.
Which, for the most part, is now.
I don’t buy lake houses, boats, or motorcycles on a whim.
But if I want a nice bottle of aftershave, a new sweater, or a watch, I don’t wait.
I buy it.
Because I want it—like, right the fuck now.
And I’m not going to wait until Christmas to get it.
Which violates both the spirit and letter of the holiday protocols to which my wife’s extended family has abided for years.
In her family, everyone, young and old, must have a stack of no fewer than nineteen presents at his feet on Christmas day.
Anything less would suggest a breakdown of the Christmas order and potentially lead to hurt feelings.
This, despite the fact I have told my wife, repeatedly, that the ideal Christmas for me would be the one in which I receive no presents at all.
I mean, seriously.
I don’t need anything.
And I’m happy to just sit and drink coffee and watch other people open their presents.
“Yeah, that’s a non-starter,” she says. “Ain’t happening. So you better get to work on that Christmas list.”
Even if I don’t dutifully submit my list in late October, as I’m instructed to do every year, it won’t stop the presents from piling up on Christmas morning.
I know this because I’ve tried.
One year, I refused to make my list in protest.
Tell your mom I’m sitting this one out, I told my wife.
I should have known better.
When Christmas rolled around, the presents piled up in front of me, just as they had in previous years.
I opened the first: deodorant.
Then the second: soap.
Then the third: shaving cream.
Turns out, my wife had gone through my drawers in the bathroom, taken note of the various brands of toiletries I favored, and put them all on my Christmas list.
Why in the hell would anyone want to buy a person toiletries for Christmas? I asked my wife.
“Because that way, you’ll have something to open like everyone else,” she explained. “You have to have something to open.”
Have to?
In a calmer moment, when I think my wife’s defenses are down, I ask her to consider the logic of that statement.
Does anyone really need to open a present on Christmas?
“You don’t get it,” she says. “You take all the joy out of gift-giving.”
Okay.
“You suck at Christmas,” she continues. “And Father’s Day. And your birthday.”
Some people genuinely enjoy giving gifts, she explains.
Like her entire family.
And I, apparently, suck all the happiness from the occasion with my obstinate determination to forego gifts.
That’s unfortunate.
But I can explain.
Two forces that reside within me collide during the holidays.
First, I hate clutter.
Too much stuff stresses me out.
I’m a huge fan of the one-in, one-out policy that prevents objects from accumulating in one’s house.
If you get something new, then you have to get rid of one corresponding item, so the net gain is zero.
All those presents at Christmas require that I get rid of a bunch of stuff to make room.
Which is a chore.
Second, I am very picky.
I have highly specific tastes, which I’ve worked to refine over the course of decades.
And the odds that someone will get me anything that agrees with my tastes are low.
So, I’d much rather people save their hard-earned money and just let me sip my coffee, present-less, on Christmas morning.
Of course, my dear wife knows all this about me.
But that doesn’t stop her from rendering the same verdict every year at Christmas.
And on Father’s Day. And on my birthday.
“You’re an asshole,” she says.
Okay, I’m an asshole.
And this is supported by my total inability to feign delight in anything that does not suit my tastes.
I totally lack that talent.
The best I can usually manage is, “That’s interesting. How thoughtful.”
My wife, on the other hand, is a gift-opening virtuoso.
Even if she hates something, she can still produce a very convincing, “Wow! Look at that! I love that color. This is totally me.”
It’s brilliant.
Now, I know how this all sounds.
I must have it pretty damn good if receiving gifts on holidays causes me stress.
And it’s true.
I have it quite good.
Probably better than I deserve.
So, I guess I’ll suck it up.
And when I open that stick of deodorant,
I’ll smile.
And be grateful.
And I’ll say,
Wow!
Look at that!
I love that color.
This is totally me.