I had to think about this one for 24 hours. Should I blog about this bizarre (IMHO) incident or not? No question that it's a whine, but those who know me well know that I have a lot of trouble limping through Decembers with my sanity more or less intact. I'm the first to admit that the problem is entirely mine. I would love to have a world-class birthday and a world-class Christmas. A merely acceptable New Year's Eve would be nice, too. However, I've never been surrounded by the sorts of people who would be necessary to make this happen. It's hard to celebrate alone. Not impossible, but hard. (Actually, I think the best Christmases I've had were the ones between marriages.)
In reality, I tend to be surrounded by people who cannot see any magic in the events of the season, who would prefer to be insulting, pick fights, and generally who tend to behave quite unmagically. It's a long story that reaches from the beginnings of my memory to the present moment, with some seriously nasty stops in between. So, I have learned to dial down my expectations to near absolute zero. My best defense has become to expect nothing, absolutely nothing. Worse yet, I set it up to be that way. Yessiree, the best offensive is a good defense. Or, the best defense is a good offense. Or something like that.
There IS one thing I shoot for, that I pray for: please don't insult me. Ignore me if you want. Discount me; I can live with that. Just don't be insulting, okay? Is that possible? Apparently not. It's fate.
Here's this year's story, as briefly as I can tell it. Talented craft group has a basically anonymous Christmas gift exchange. Rules are: something handmade or something a fiber artist could use. Value range is about $20, more or less. (One always hopes for more.) The gift I offered, tucked into a tissue-lined gold gift bag, was a handmade origami-style foldout book that can be a journal or scrapbook, and a box of upscale chocolates. What did I get when I selected my anonymous wrapped gift? Oh lord. A fabric gift bag. No gift. A gift bag. A WRAPPED gift bag, no less. Handmade, I'll admit, but nothing special. It took all my graciousness, assisted by a good shot of shock, not to blurt out, "Cool! Where's the gift?!" I didn't do it.
Now, I quickly figured out that to avoid developing a serious resentment against the woman who was so clueless as to offer up a gift bag rather than a gift, I knew I had to get rid of the damned thing ASAP. I had to release it to the universe, like, NOW. Seriously. I was insulted. Thirty five real gifts were exchanged. And a gift bag. Can you just, please, not insult me world? Well, by the time I left the party, I had a plan.
Our local Art Museum annually holds a Holiday Craft Market for its member to sell their wares. I took the gift bag to the Market and gave it to the staff to offer as a freebie to someone buying something from the Market. Good-bye gift bag. I then searched the Market for something for me and found a delightful mixed-media book on the subject of . . . (you can see this one coming, can't you?) . . . cats! Thus, I traded the gift bag for a real and wonderful handmade gift, putting money into the hands of the artist who made it AND the Art Museum in the process.
I've sent the dreaded gift bag off into the universe to find a better home, one where it will be appreciated with the same spirit with which it was made and given. Whatever that is, because I swear I don't get it. Forever after I'll remember this particular gift exchange as the one where I took care of myself, shared a bit of my monetary wealth, and released a potential resentment into the universe. I love the woman who made and gave the gift bag. Seriously. And I kinda like me, too. (A lavender-honey gelato afterwards didn't hurt, either.)