There is a quote attributed to Mahatma Gandhi: “If you don’t ask, you don’t get it.” I’m not sure that was Gandhi’s exact wording, and I’m not sure he would appreciate my use of the phrase, but I thought I’d test this theory out with my spouse this Christmas.
I broached it carefully. The Carpenter and I were in the living room, each flipping through the holiday shopping flyers that come every week in this newspaper, discussing gift ideas for the special people on our gift list, and how we’d budget the season. Short conversation. Short list.
Of course, this prompted the topic of our own gift exchange. What would we do for one another this Christmas? I could recite his speech word for word before he even began talking. He’d say he doesn’t want anything, nor does he need anything. Let’s just enjoy the day, he’d say. Yawn.
He’d remind me, in case I didn’t know, that the cost of moving and our new living situation was debt enough. Then he’d wrap up, stating the obvious: we couldn’t afford to be frivolous.
“Just get me a new pair of jeans. I could use those,” he said. “And then let’s just stick to stocking stuffers.” Every year, the same speech. Predictable. Boring.
I understand the need to be fiscally responsible. I have no desire to sink further into debt either, and since I’m in charge of the budgets, I’m well aware of our spending limits. Yet, nothing would give me more joy than spoiling my best friend with an affordable, thoughtful gift, a little sentimental holiday magic. It really is better to give than receive (we’re still talking about gifts, smarten up).
Wait, that’s not entirely true. I’d like to receive a little holiday magic myself (still about gifts. Where does your mind go?). We’re terrible at celebrating anything for each other. It’s so weird, because nobody knows us better than we do. I miss the days when our gift exchanges showed each other that, when we were fun, silly and sweet. It was romantic. We were financially strapped then too, but naively hopeful the banking would balance itself out by spring. When the kids were little, we tried harder. The spirit of the season was contagious. Christmas was fun.
Now? It’s different. Nice, sure, but different. Stocking stuffers. Sigh. Well, If you don’t ask, you don’t get it, right? This seemed as good a time as any.
“I know what you could get me,” I said, nonchalantly, not looking up from the flyer in my hand. “I’d like a San Francisco 49ers George Kittel jersey.” I felt the air suck out of the room. “And then just stocking stuffer stuff. ”
I slowly looked up at him in time to see his head explode, his Seattle Seahawks cap levitating over the steam coming from his head.
“Fat chance. Not happening,” he bellowed, his eyes freakishly wide, flyer thrown in the air.
“If you think I’d buy you a 49ers anything you’re crazy. No way my money gets spent on that team, ever. Not ever. Nice try. It’s not happening. Keep dreaming.”
He sat back down in a huff, a new flyer in his hand. He laughed, shaking his head, giving me a wink. I take it back; that reaction was the perfect gift. It was everything. Stocking stuffed, indeed.
