Psst, Isabel . . .
I look up in irritation: an email is trying to get my attention. Dagnab it. What do They want now?
. . . do you need a last-minute gift?
Aw. Embarrassment-at-being-caught-being-impatient-with-another’s-good-intention (I think German has a word for that) disarms my irritation. Embarrassment and something deeper. I can’t say that I need a last-minute gift, exactly — after all, I have a houseful of extra stuff I’m trying to get rid of — but against all reason I’d love to have a gift, last-minute or otherwise. I wonder how it knew?
I take a minute to think about what the gift might be. Anticipation is part of the pleasure, no?
Maybe it’s an edible treat of some sort. A bite-sized bit of classy chocolate?
Maybe it’s a non-edible treat of some sort. Hand-made soap?
Maybe it’s a cool idea. A link to a new-to-me blog?
Maybe it’s a moment of connection. A shared joke with the grocery-store clerk?
Maybe it’s a happy thought. An un-fished-for compliment?
Maybe it’s a good deed. A worthy donation made in my name?
Golly. So many options, and all of them lovely. But while I’m framing my words of gracious acceptance for whatever the gift might be, I look a little more carefully at the screen.
Uh-oh. What’s this? The email is shuffling its feet, mumbling awkwardly, but gradually its meaning and the problem come clear.
Ah. This is not about a gift for me, it’s about a gift from me. A last-minute gift from me. Irritation and embarrassment both fade as I look at the email in disbelief, just one question on my mind: Have we met?
I was the grade-school kid who pestered family members for gift ideas in August and who had all her Christmas shopping done by Hallowe’en. I was the young mother who struggled to wait until December to buy presents for little kids whose passions were as fleeting as they were strong. (I could see the logic of it, but it felt *so* wrong.) I am the senior who knows that I positively bought a gift significantly in advance of the event, I just need to remember where I stashed it. Sigh.
I probably do too many things at the last minute, but buying gifts is not one of them. Of course the email doesn’t know any of that about me. It doesn’t know anything about me except my name. How odd, then, that it just taught me something about myself.
Psst, Isabel . . .
. . . do you need a last-minute gift?
You know what? I do. Doesn’t everyone? Thank goodness there are so many options, and all of them lovely.
