Two days after I completed my Christmas shopping with fanfare no grander than a mention on Facebook, my beloved announced triumphantly at top volume from the other room that HE had finished his Christmas shopping, and not only that, but he was the best Christmas-giftmeister since Melchior.
And that was fine, because he’s a man, and men I’m married to (and others, I’ve heard tell,) historically seem to need acknowledgment of their little accomplishments, regardless of their auditor’s own accomplishments in the same arena:
“Honey, I got the junk drawer straightened out!”
“Great, honey…I got the other 8 rooms of the house cleaned and bathed the dogs.”
Crickets commence chirping.
Because I know this, and because I really do love him, I limited myself to only a subtly snarky “That’s great! I finished 2 days ago.”
And that could’ve been the end of it. It could’ve been the end of it if we were some other couple, but alas, we are us, and there is no end to it. Which is why at least thrice daily since the big announcement, I have been told how much I am going to love my Christmas present; that I will be stunned by joy upon opening it; and that it is the most awesome and perfect-for-me present that ever was AND (for the first time ever) came in under the price limit that, in the past, we both agreed to and he only acknowledged with a nod as he spent right past it.
Which is good news for me, if it’s true, no?
But I did say to Captain Enthusiasm, “You’re putting an awful lot of pressure on yourself with this campaign of gifty greatness, aren’t you? What if it doesn’t live up to the hype?”
“Then I’ll just be totally devastated.”
Oh. Okay. No pressure.
Happy solstice and Merry Christmas, my friends. Hope your holidays sparkle. You gonna open your presents Christmas eve or Christmas day?