The Sweater Only a Mom (and Analyst) Could Love

I LOVE giving gifts, but let’s not pretend: I prefer to receive them. Unfortunately, I’m one of those people who is never satisfied and mostly disappointed. It could be because I am an ungrateful jerk with a childish temperament who places too much emphasis on what is essentially a symbolic ritual. Or it could be the media’s fault.
As I see it, I am the victim of years of conditioning from movies and commercials. They prepared me for the gaudily wrapped package with its golden bow, the moment of intense expectation charged with mystery climaxing as the tissue crinkles and the prize is revealed. You are overwhelmed, and there are hugs and kisses and sometimes tears.
But the reality is that getting a gift is like being set up on a blind date. Like it or not, your friend or family member is sending you a message telling you in a coded way what they think you want, what you deserve and, on some level, who they think you are.
I’m not talking about business gifts. They are formal and often unexpected. A bottle of wine, a certificate for a massage, and those wonderful electronic trinkets: they are part of a different language. Everyone gets the same thing.
Family is where it breaks down. And my family is big on gifts. Everyone refuses to stop exchanging them, even though we have all declared them a waste of time and money.