Spontaneity is overrated. Just use your damn turn signal.
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Christmas came and went on a whirlwind. The kaleidoscope of bows and ribbons and crinkly wrapping paper disappeared from under the tree in a matter of minutes. We had a trashbag ready, and they all went packing into in it, groaning under the massive bulge to hold just one more handful of used gift-wrappings. I was the gatekeeper. I read the little tags, the To‘s and the From‘s and handed them off to their respective new owners. They were savages, ripping into the boxes like carnivores at their prey. A flurry of hands and tape.
Me, I carefully slipped my fingers under the seams of the paper and ran them across the stickies until the paper gave. Ribbons were set aside. Tissue paper was carefully folded back. Gloves and sweaters. I had packed lightly for my trip home with the anticipation of gloves and sweaters. But I was more interested in the others.
Hours of shopping (i.e. pushing and shoving) and wrapping odd-shaped boxes on the floor in front of the telly was all for this. First, dubious of contents. It must withstand a courteous shaking-of-the-box. Then, careful inspection. Was there a gift receipt? Third, the trial. Plug it in, try it on. And finally, acceptance. They loved it. Honestly.
Listen. This year, Steve and I are sorta skipping our birthdays. We usually celebrate together since we are only days apart, but this year, we will be on the road for interviews. [The video iPod is love on batteries.] So no presents, just a nice dinner paid for by the University of Whatsits and Whosits.
I don’t like that “tradition”, anyway. Feeling like I have to buy him something. I’m not going to pull that grief about how we should celebrate every day together. [I'd be a certified alcoholic then.] On the other hand, I don’t want to agree to not get anything. I don’t know, but something’s been lost in all this gift-giving. From the heart, you know? Freedom to buy or not buy something, but really pick out the perfect gift. Maybe it’s the idea of paying attention to the smallest details and taking time to figure what (s)he really wants. Bah, I’m being a romantic again.
Sigh. Gift certificates are the bane of my existance. It’s an admission of failure of thought. Giving up. Of mere acquaintance. Half-assed for full price.
It’s odd. I drove all the way out of the state to find myself home again. The snow was unforgiving, and every few miles, cars bedded themselves along the side of the road. It startled me to find people inside. Welcome to the Great Chill of 2005.
Edit: I had to think for a second what year it was. Am I that lost?
We walked carefully atop the icy sidewalks, Steve and I. Holding hands, but not really—a couple layers of glove wool between us. I couldn’t feel any warm he had left in this weather. I liked watching his breath materialize in the cold. What else could take shape and form where it once was only a feeling? We pretended to admire the pottery in the store, but we only came in for the heater. It was so cold. Too cold for any road dirt to even cling to the powdery snow, blowing from ever changing dunes. Everything was clean, stayed clean, and would be clean long after I left. Did this city ever thaw? Or was it frozen forever?
The idea warmed me. Everything would be the same. Novelty is overrated. Spontaneity is a lie. There is so much comfort in this blizzard with hot chocolate and an overworked space heater.
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