The hard part of Christmas is that I can’t keep a secret.
It isn’t that I don’t want to keep secrets, or fail to understand that, sometimes, it is good to withhold certain information from particular individuals. It is that, darn it, Christmas presents are supposed to make folks happy, and it’s been tough these last few weeks keeping my mouth shut about what I’ve bought (or what Santa might be bringing).
Actually, it’s been tough for the past month. Back in early November, I found the perfect _ for my _. I ordered it as soon as I found it in the _ _ and have carefully kept it hidden since it arrived on my doorstep, begging to be opened. It is now gift-wrapped and, truth be told, has been moved to a secure, off-site location to keep not only others from finding it accidentally but me from caving in to temptation and giving it away early.
Would I actually do that? Of course not! Have I given away plenty of hints about its size, texture, shape and identity?
Well, yes.
I did show the gift, unwrapped, to my daughter, who would have claimed it for her own had I not insisted we put it back in its box and wait for a certain day in late December. She would have taken it home with her, which tells me the recipient will probably (I hope) fall in love with it.
That’s the thing – I am withholding joy, which seems to me a cruel and unusual thing to do. At no other time of ear do we deny ourselves (or others) things. Yet here we are, in the season of giving and good cheer, torturing ourselves with thoughts of how happy everyone will be days from now. It’s antithetical to the concept of instant gratification, with which we reward ourselves on a daily basis.
I know, I know. Waiting until Christmas to dig into all those packages underneath the tree is part of the program, and, yes, I agree, the wait is very much worthwhile, but that doesn’t do a thing to help the OTHER problem I’m having to deal with – dropping hints, to which I have alluded.
If you are around small children for any length of time during the Christmas season, you know what I am talking about: the constant peppering of questions and sometimes outright demands for hints. They come fast and furious: “What’s it look like? What color is it? Is it heavy? Where did you get it? Can I see it? How much did you pay for it? Is it something I would want? Is it clothes? Is it shoes? Is it something I asked for? Can I see it? Where is it?”
And so on.
In most cases, I am immune to such questioning. I never (well, rarely) crack under the hot lights of a child’s demands. I am, however, guilty of occasionally asking for hints myself, which may or may not be appropriate for a man in his mid-40s. (Don’t judge me!)
I have discovered a new tactic, one I never tried on my parents or grandparents, but one I use today for obtaining information about square or rectangular boxes with my name on them. I like to casually ask, during an ordinary conversation, what exactly I am getting for Christmas.
It is the seeming casualness of the query that almost brings the real answer to my ears. For example, let’s say we are having a conversation about the chicken strips we just ate for supper. That’s usually a good time to slip in a question about that gift-wrapped box I know is meant for me.
This most often results in a surprised grin and a non-answer like, “I can’t tell you!” To which I respond, “No, seriously, what are you getting me? What’s in that thing? Seriously.”
This line of none-too-subtle interrogation goes on until one of us gets tired or I’m told to shut up and wait. Isn’t it the joy of Christmas to be annoying about presents? Sure it is!
Seriously, Merry Christmas.
Contact managing editor Dan Marsh at [email protected].