The Greatest Gift of All

I’ve never been much of a gift-giver or receiver. I’m too self-sufficient to need or want anything, too self-centered to figure out your needs and wants.

I know, I know. Gift-giving is not just about fulfilling material needs or wants, it’s about the joy we derive from the giving itself, which is even better than the joy we get from the receiving. It’s an ancient practice that reaffirms our familial and social ties, a tangible manifestation of the invisible threads that bind us together. It’s an essential engine of our economy.

So gift-giving is a good thing. I recognize that. It’s just not for me.

As a result, I’ve worked assiduously over the years to shrink my holiday gift-giving circle, ruthlessly paring down my gift-giving relationships. Today my circle is limited to spouse, parents, siblings and one friend who ignores my very clear gift-hating signals and still sends me something every year, obligating me to reciprocate. Damn him!

Each year at this time, as they buy presents and check off their lists, rushing to finish their shopping before the annual orgy of obligatory gifting, I imagine them stalling at my name, scratching their heads, wondering: “What does he want?” No one knows.

And I certainly don’t help them. If they ask me what I want, I tell them: “Nothing.” I never drop hints; if I see something I really want, I buy it. It never occurs to me to ask someone to buy it for me.

If they are particularly intrepid, and try to discern my desires through my hobbies, they will be frustrated. I have no visible hobbies. I suppose it would help if I collected something, anything, but, alas, I collect nothing. I am an avid consumer of music and books, but I keep my tastes to myself. If you want to buy me a book or a CD, good luck. I have a hard enough time finding books and CDs I like; for you the task is all but impossible. A classic needle in the haystack situation.

It doesn’t stop people from trying, bless them, and as a result my shelves and CD racks bulge with the accumulated bloat of years of ill-chosen gifts that I can’t bear to read or listen to, but that I also can’t bear to discard for fear of offending these well-meaning but misguided gifters.

Don’t you hate having to buy gifts for people like me?

Years ago I tried to reform and start playing the gift game, but when they asked what I wanted, I honestly couldn’t think of anything. Just drew a blank. Still do. I’d offer up staples I’d have to buy anyways, such as a new coat or socks, or a six-pack of my favorite beer, but they could see through my little dodge. They knew my heart wasn’t in it. I tried just making stuff up, but I felt too guilty as they scurried off to spend their hard-earned cash on stuff I didn’t really want.

These days they mostly give me gift certificates – Amazon is their current favorite – but the whole thing is very unsatisfying for all involved. They don’t get to see me eagerly tearing the paper off a box filled with their thoughtfully-selected goods, no, now they’re reduced to calling and asking if I checked my email. Or telling me that gift card is good for $50 at Best Buy. It’s so impersonal, gift-giving reduced to a mere financial transaction. And I feel so bad when I they need the money more than I do.

So why do I persist in frustrating these nice people?

Part of it must be attributed to my asocial tendencies. Gift-giving is a hassle for everyone, but most of us grit our teeth and go through with it because we place such a high value on maintaining our social connections. I don’t value those connections nearly as much as most, so the hassle of gift-giving simply isn’t worth it for me.

Similarly, I have a deeply insecure need for privacy, a need so great that it won’t permit me to reveal my deepest desires to anyone, lest they mock me, or to rely on anyone to satisfy those desires, lest they let me down.

Part of it is because I can afford to buy what I want. I don’t need you to buy it for me.

And part of it is because I’ve had this uneasy sense for a long time that, if I’m not careful, my possessions will possess me. I’m afraid to like them too much. So I keep them at a wary distance, resisting their attraction, trying to enforce a strictly utilitarian relationship with them. It doesn’t help when you ply me with bright and shiny things.

Slowly but surely, my possession aversion is turning me into a minimalist: if you avoid new stuff and discard old stuff long enough, one day you’ll end up with nothing. I’m getting there. On the way, I’ve discovered the simple joys of throwing things away. Of cleaning out a closet. Of emptying drawers. Of finding 100 pens and deciding that’s 99 too many. Of figuring out exactly how many shirts I need, and discarding the rest. Of giving my books away, better to be read by someone else than gathering dust on my shelves.

This is how it must feel when a dieter loses weight. I feel so light and free, it’s liberating!

So this year, when the few remaining members of my gift-giving circle ask me yet again what I want, instead of saying “nothing,” I’ll say what I want more than anything else in the whole wide world is for them to take something from me. Preferably something I like, for I’ve probably grown too attached to it for my own good. So reduce my load, ease my burden, help liberate me. That is the gift I want.

After all, it is better to give than receive, isn’t it?