Chacos: The art of gift giving

I cursed the package delivered to my doorstep and let the box sit on my kitchen counter for a couple of days, unmoved and unopened. I knew it was another present from the fabulous friend that raises the gift-giving stakes one dazzling offering at a time. She curates every gift as if raised by deep-sea pearl divers and then exquisitely wraps everything with the care you’d expect from someone who sadistically bombs gift boxes with glitter and colored tissue paper. To put another nail in the coffin of her thoughtfulness, her gifts usually come attached with a note written on a card that she probably picked up at some brick-and-mortar boutique owned by the cutest looking grandma ever. She makes me feel loved … and sometimes lazy.

Over the years, I’ve given out a handful of pathetic birthday presents, cringeworthy moments that beg for a redo. Once I was running late meeting a friend for her birthday lunch and didn’t want to arrive empty-handed. I desperately ran into the grocery store and then frantically scanned the linoleum aisles looking for anything that could pass as a birthday present but coming up, of course, empty-handed. An hour later she opened her gift over chicken-salad sandwiches. She muttered and then forced what may have been an awkward-looking smile or maybe it was only a burp from the bubbly. She thanked me for the grocery store gift card and then followed it up with, You shouldn’t have or That’s so thoughtful. I can’t remember exactly what she said because my memory tries to erase it, but I know whatever kindness she forced out of her mouth was more than I deserved. I celebrated her birthday with a cold, hard piece of plastic that one could redeem under fluorescent lighting for milk, eggs, tampons, and toilet paper. I lost part of my dignity that day. 

Another time, I went into my closet and plucked out a brand-new, luxury candle that was at one time gifted to me but passionately felt would make a better housewarming gift to a friend instead. The overpowering scent needed to reside somewhere else. I couldn’t remember who originally gave it to me, it was so long ago. I recycled and regifted it, proud of my resourcefulness. When the recipient’s face contorted ever so slightly upon opening the gift, my fuzzy memory came into focus like a bullet train on cocaine. She graciously thanked me for the same scented candle in the same decorative gift bag tied with the same ornate bow she had once given me. Regifting requires strategy worthy of an Army general and, if I’m being honest, it’s a skill I’ve since improved upon.

Growing up, birthdays were never cause for balloons or banners in our home, and we didn’t learn how to celebrate in a grand manner like some families do for major holidays or events. Some occasions came with a thoughtful, well-written card and money, others were family dinners at the nearby Chinese restaurant. We weren’t ones to make a big fuss for traditionally honored days. I eventually figured that meaningful gifts were meant to be given when the moment was right and when the feelings of giving overcame me, not for times prescribed by the calendar on the wall. I hoped our family came across as low key and pragmatic, not as a clown car of scrooges, but I know this type of gift-giving behavior turned me into the gambling game of roulette.

On display in my living room sits a refurbished, vintage typewriter. I received it one afternoon, an unexpected surprise that made me cry despite being poorly wrapped and weeks after the holiday season. It’s insanely impractical and takes up precious real estate in our tiny space. I’ve often thought it would look better tucked away in a closet. At some time or another, I mentioned in conversation that I dreamed of one day sitting at a wooden desk in a misty cabin in the woods plucking away at a novel for months on end. Deep in thought, I’d have a cigarette burning idly from my mouth and a glass of wine nearby, even though I don’t smoke or drink. I’d be too wrapped up in my writing, even to eat. It’s a romantic idea conjured up from a movie or one of Stephen King’s old horror stories. It doesn’t matter. The friend heard me, and the typewriter sees me. 

My son and his girlfriend tearfully said goodbye to one another earlier this year. They will spend several months and continents apart, a lifetime in delicate young-love years, often with no phone or other means of contact; an off-grid relationship for the foreseeable future. I imagine each will question their time apart, Are we still good? In an act of connection and commitment, once a week a small present with a handwritten card my son put together is scheduled to be sent to his girlfriend. He carefully prepared them before he went away, and my task is to mail them in the correct order. The gifts are tender and small, but the feelings are big.

I’m already grinning when I decide to open the package threatening to collect dust on my kitchen counter. My fabulous friend knows how to get that from me, making me feel special and loved before the package is even opened. She is the real gift, and I hope she knows I’d feel the same way if she sent me a stone from the side of the road. This time there is enough bubble wrap for a soft lunar landing and a sweatshirt from our hometown ice cream shoppe. There are other items in the box, but I’m lost in memories. We spent years huddled together gossiping over double-dipped waffle cones. The art of the gift is not about giving the glossiest present on the correct day, although who am I kidding, I love those kinds of gifts every now and again. The most meaningful gift ever to give and receive is about exposing a piece of our heart, and that can be unlocked any day of the week, but having a container of confetti and a calendar to remind you of those special occasions certainly helps, too. 

Andrea Chacos lives in Carbondale, balancing work and happily raising three children with her husband. She strives to dodge curveballs life likes to throw with a bit of passion, humor and some flair.