In Defense of Gift Guides

and the shame of wanting

Reading the recent New York Times story about gift-guide fatigue, I realized how much I enjoy reading gift guides, even though I don’t buy from them. I subscribe to a couple of daily shopping guides. (This one, by the co-founder of the now defunct Lucky Magazine, is my favorite.) I don’t buy much in general. I trained myself decades ago to shun commerce, so I could live a life that de-centered earning—a life of the mind. I had an optimistic view of my mind. I didn’t predict the extent to which my mind, which I privileged over finances, would feed me anxiety about my finances. In my 40s, my mind builds trap after trap. In my 40s, my mind is a focus group, all of whose members are in a bad mood. In my 40s, coarse hairs grow from my nostrils and plucking them makes my eyes tear. I wonder why, in an evolutionary sense, nose-hair removal makes us cry. I wonder if I should have done things differently. I should have, for sure; I’m not wondering.

An ex-boyfriend of mine, who prided himself on his gift-giving prowess, was the purest workaholic I’ve ever known. I tend to avoid the label “workaholic,” in part defensively because I love to work, in part because I hate portmanteaux, but this man behaved as though Earth’s survival depended on his IT contributions to a camping-goods brand. The Christmas before we broke up, he was working too much to shop for his mother and sister, so I bought their presents instead. I don’t remember what I bought, but I know that I did this for him, and I know that he didn’t give me a Christmas present. Every relationship post-mortem is a tallying: Why did I spend what I spent? Why did I let myself lose what I lost? I’m Jewish, so I don’t need Christmas presents. In my heart, I’m anti-consumerist, so I don’t need presents at all. But I am hyper-attuned to rejection. I spent the majority of that relationship devising ways to make him stop rejecting me. Like most of us, he was secretive. Like most of us, he was intensely lovable to those who had chosen to love him. Weeks after Christmas, he gave me ear plugs, the pliable, sticky ones that pull your hair. I wore ear plugs to sleep because he snored and he thought he was upping my ear-plug game. He declared the ear plugs a “late Christmas present.”

I met his ex-girlfriend at his sister’s barbecue. She was from an old Napa wine family—very West coast, very laid-back. She had long, curly blond hair to her waist and freckles across her nose. I wondered if she’d accepted his avoidance more peacefully than I did. I was certain that she had. She was still friends with his sister. She seemed to care for his mother, who annoyed the shit out of me. I felt what I always feel when I meet a boyfriend’s ex—like we were communicating subtextually, like we understood each other spiritually, like I was saying, I’m sorry you went through what I’m going through, and she was saying, I’m sorry you’re going through what I went through.

I love you, we were saying, in a way.

When my relationship with him ended, I threw up in his toilet, hugged his dog, and never spoke to him again. It still feels miraculous that I don’t have to speak to him. Every conversation was an unanswered plea. While we were breaking up, he acted bothered and distracted because it was early morning and he wished to be at work.

I took this picture of his dog on my way out the door.

My current boyfriend’s kids look through gift guides and circle every single toy on every single page. My boyfriend explains to them that if they circle everything, he/Santa Claus won’t know which toys they want most, but logic does not move them to curtail their circling. They circle and circle. Every toy warrants a circle. Wanting is wanting, after all.

My Christmas present to my boyfriend is a bowling-ball bag that fits three balls. He is a bowler who almost went pro. Before I met him, I didn’t know that adults bowled. I thought bowling was for birthday parties. I remember spreading my legs wide and hurling the ball down the lane with both hands. He’s teaching me how to bowl like a grownup. I am not a natural. I’ve never been a natural at a physical activity. Even if I diligently practice a physical activity, I remain awkward. You would never watch me do a physical activity and think, She is nailing that physical activity. I have a vivid childhood memory of throwing a baseball to my father, who caught it and said, “You throw like your mother.”

The athletes, back in October in Boston

I’ll admit there are things that I want. There’s an online class I’d like to take that costs hundreds of dollars. Dozens of times a day, the H falls off my keyboard; I’d like a new laptop. When I was in my 20s, a much older married man, who would sit for hours in the bar I worked in, drinking single malts and watching me, offered to buy me a laptop. He’d overheard me saying that I’d spilled soup on mine. His long gray hair was secured in a low ponytail, highlighting the gaping disc of scalp on his head. I did not accept the laptop, which he offered “in exchange for your company.”

I remember lying to the laptop repair guy, in hopes of getting a replacement computer. I didn’t know why my laptop had stopped working, I said. He lifted the keyboard, revealing the soup: “It stopped working because you spilled soup on it.” In retrospect, I recognize the look on his face—the exhaustion of someone who spends his days getting lied to.

At the time, in addition to cocktail waitressing, I was ghost-writing a book for a religious woman, a screed against pre-marital sex, and she lent me her teenage son’s laptop. He hadn’t cleared his search history, an unending scroll of “Asian lesbian” porn.

His carelessness impressed me. When I want something, I squash the wanting. Or I give in to the wanting and tell no one. I’d like to be less ashamed. To want overtly: a New Year’s resolution.

Wishes for a fulfilling 2025. Thank you, always, for being my subscribers. I love to imagine you reading my writing.

Love always,

Diana

P.S. What do you want? Let me know in the comments.