The Gift That Keeps Not Giving

About 10 years ago, I quit Christmas. Just quit. I didn't even give it two weeks' notice, just walked on out, and as I left, Christmas said, "Oh yeah? Well, make sure the stress, sense of obligation, and forced merriment don't hit you in the ass on the way out!" To this lame rejoinder, I flipped Christmas a bird, and let me tell you, it wasn't the kind that you'll find on your Doves of Peace Blown Glass Holiday Keepsake Ornament that you can get for just $3.99 with your purchase of two Hallmark cards.

Since opting out of Christmas, my life during the month of December has improved in myriad ways. For instance, I have a much lower probability of dying in a car accident because I am not forced to travel to a multitude of Christmas parties in bad weather. I weigh less because my ego is not pumped full of multiple party invitations, which comes with it the sense of resentment you have towards the hosts because you just want to stay home tonight, with it never occuring to you that they will not deem their party a failure due to your absence. You probably didn't get an invitation to their "real" party, anyway, just that one they throw for people they don't want to completely exclude or they won't get to borrow their time-share credits next year. Also, the soles of my feet are completely devoid of the little puncture wounds you get from Christmas tree needles when you walk across the living room barefoot. And best of all, I get to skip out on the insanity of holiday shopping.

Gift-giving, to me, is the most distasteful thing about the Christmas season. Nobody acknowledges that gift-giving, while seemingly an act of graciousness and generosity, is actually pretty self-important. Every year, people thrust piles of stuff upon other people. Stuff. Every gift comes with an implicit card that reads, "Here. Take this. I am giving you stuff in order to assuage the feelings of guilt I would have if I didn't give you anything, and this trumps the fact your house is already so packed with crap you can never find your anti-depressants. Take it. Take it!" I hate stuff. If you have moved as many times as I have, you may understand the sense of dread I feel when someone hands me a wrapped package, unless it contains something that is quickly consumable, such as a bottle of wine (no cheese logs, please), which you wouldn't wait until Christmas to give me if you really liked me. Christmas is the time we say, "You know what? I know just what to give people for Christmas--stuff! Let's go out and get everyone some stuff, and we'll all feel merry and bright, just like in that song. You'll have stuff, and I'll have stuff, and the nieces will leave here with a pile of stuff, and it will be so cool. Stuff. It's brilliant. Why didn't we think of this last year?"

The "gift sets" provided for our consumption this time of year underscore the concept of gift-giving as stuff-giving. They allow you to quickly purchase, without much thought, some stuff to foist upon someone. Gift sets, whether they be a pair of Isotoners with a bonus scarf or a Ghirardelli cocoa sampler, are wrapped in the non-recycleable plastic of a sense of obligation, and don't fool yourself, your recipient knows this. If you find yourself in a Bath-And-Bodyworks contemplating the purchase of a Six-Scent Lotion, Shampoo, and Hand Sanitizer Travel Kit for your co-worker, roommate, or carpool partner, put the box down. Your intended target can easily live without a mini-bottle of Night-Blooming Jasmine Elbow Butter, and likely will not notice if you don't thrust a cellophane-wrapped package in her arms as she welcomes you to her cookie-and-nog afternoon holiday gathering (the real party, my dear, the one with the good liquor, is Saturday night).

Some people, knowing my opinions about gift-giving and receiving, seem to believe that I am just prematurely crusty and curmudgeonly, and that if someone simply showed me a little love, I would be full of holiday cheer. Many of them, thinking they are being original, try to cleverly step around my wishes by giving me gifts on December 9th, 15th, or 18th, triumphantly claiming that, "It's not Christmas, so this isn't a Christmas gift! It's just an early birthday present." I appreciate neither the pity nor the ruse, Cindy Lou-Who. If you're going to shove holiday cheer down my throat, at least invite me to your good party and mix it with some vodka.