I always considered myself to be a thoughtful person. I send thank you notes promptly and write them beautifully- so the giver know how much I appreciate who they are to me as much as what they have given me. Not to pat myself on the back or anything, but I also write wonderful cards and toasts that make people laugh, cry, and feel good about themselves. But the truth is, it kind of ends there. I am rarely on time with those cards, especially if the recipient is out of state, and I am ridiculously inconsistent. I mean well, but it has recently dawned on me that well-meaners are the reason for such expressions as "it's the thought that counts." It always seemed to me that the thought was the easy part, the execution- the finding, the buying, the wrapping, the sending on time- that was so hard. But I have been blessed with an actually thoughtful husband, one who thinks very sensitively about gifts (even if he, too, is inconsistent at best and rarely on time), and I believe that he has, in a way, given me the greatest gift: understanding what it means to be thoughtful.
Where is this coming from? you might be thinking. Well, there are two men in my life who are, on the surface, impossible to gift. Both of them have birthdays coming up (Dave's is tomorrow and my Dad's is the 18th), and both of them got shafted for father's day, the guilt over which has been hanging around my subconscious for the past six weeks. They are impossible to shop for for different reasons: my Dad because he claims he doesn't need anything and, in truth, is awfully content and seems to feel genuinely fortunate in his life; and Dave because the things he does want are so specific, so thoroughly researched, and, often, so expensive, that they are all way out of my league. For Dave, I would give the gift of taking something he really was interested in and doing the research for him, only he would never trust my research and would spend so much time verifying it, that he might as well have done the work his own way from the start.
Perhaps in some part due to all that research, Dave tends to have a "better way" to do just about anything, and he believes that the rest of us should think his way is better, too. (Similarly, my Dad is always coming out with these bits of information that sound so random that everyone puts it down to the Irish Gift for Gab- meaning, we assume he's making it up. Our family's favorite example of this dates to a drive through North Carolina, circa 1993, when my Dad announced that the town we were approaching was home of the world's hottest pepper. Annoyingly, it turned out that my dad was correct about that pepper, and Dave's "better"methods tend to actually be, well, better.) A while back, Dave and I joked about an experiment whereby, rather than arguing every time he told me the better way, I would just go ahead and take his advice and see what I learned. So, for his birthday, I decided to think about how he would go about buying a gift, and even from this hypothetical exercise, I learned a few things.
Before I got down to business, though, I wasted a lot of time trying to remember the brilliant idea I had had for a gift for him a while back; the one genius idea that was going to be the gift to end all gifts. (I have always been both a procrastinator and an exaggerator). Then, giving up on the genius but forgotten idea--and here comes tip number one--I went to his favorite store: Paul Smith. (To be honest, this was a stroke of luck- on my way from one errand to another, I happened to walk within a block of the place and remembered that it was right there and that Dave loved it.) I suppose this should be obvious, but I think too often we end up getting our loved ones gifts that we want them to love, rather than gifts that they will love--gifts that reflect who we think they should be, rather than who they are.
Once inside, I realized that half the work had been done for me; this store is Dave's favorite for very good reason: as I walked around, picking up one thing after another, I felt that Dave would very much like every single thing here; my job, then, was to choose which things. Part of the problem with this particular store is that it is very expensive. I looked at a price tag here and there and new there was no way I was spending $300 on a shirt, especially while Dave and I are sharing one bank account, with dwindling funds. And I remembered another lesson of thoughtfulness. A few years back, my parents went to Italy. For Christmas that year, I was thrilled to receive a Missoni scarf--as a lover of texture, pattern, and color (and, okay, knits in general), I have always been a huge fan of the brand. I remember, when I opened it, that my mom apologized that it was "only a scarf," but that it was all they could really justify purchasing in the expensive store. But to me, owning a genuine, beautiful anything from Missoni was a big, wonderful deal; I wore that scarf religiously for the next two years, particularly with the perfect little Calvin Klein jean jacket, and the feeling of absolute chic that I got from owning and wearing that little piece of Missoni made that scarf one of the best gifts I have ever received. So I bought Dave some socks. Fabulous, striped, Paul Smith socks. I hope he will get that same feeling every time he wears them.
I think thoughtful gift-giving is also about sending a particular message. At this moment in our lives, where we have been through so much change on a yearly basis but have found ourselves voluntarily signing up for so much more, I wanted Dave to know how I feel about him as a person; what I promise to him in all the changes ahead; and that I believe we will get through it all if we can both remember to have an open mind and sense of humor. Because Dave is more private than me, I won't share the details of what gifts accomplished each of those things, but I will say that he gave me a great compliment upon opening it all: that it was, indeed, very thoughtful.
Next up, dad. I better get thinking.
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