Few things satisfy like giving thoughtful gifts to those we love

By David McElroy · May 18, 2018

I’m cursed with the desire to give gifts to those I love.

There are few things that delight my heart like having a flash of inspiration about what a woman would love and then rushing off to excitedly make the purchase. When I get such an idea, I’m like an impatient child at Christmas. I can’t wait for this oh-so-perfect gift to arrive or to be delivered.

When I have the right kind of relationship with a woman who wants gifts from me, it’s a magical experience. I honestly don’t want anything in return. I just want to experience her joy at receiving something from me which she honestly appreciates.

It’s when I don’t have such a relationship — when there’s someone I would love to give to, but I can’t — when it becomes a curse. And it seems to be something which I can’t turn off.

Twice today, I’ve run across things which I think a particular someone would love. She will never know that, because she’s no longer in my life — by her choice — and so she will never receive what I’d like to send.

Maybe it seems as though I should be grateful. After all, I don’t have to spend the money which I would otherwise spend to buy something for someone else — for things which would do me no practical good. Maybe that’s the rational way for the brain to feel. But my heart feels cursed that it can’t have the joy of sending gifts.

Some of my most treasured memories from the past are of giving gifts which I knew delighted someone I loved at the time. Even when it’s people who are no longer in my life, the memory of having made them happy does something wonderful for my heart.

In my last serious love relationship, I had a number of ideas for things I desperately wanted to give to a woman, but I was going through a low period financially. I was having trouble simply surviving, so I couldn’t afford most of what I wanted to give to her. It feels terribly unfair that when I’ve finally reached the point when I could afford to give her some of those things — some of them, not all — the relationship is gone.

And I have no idea why I can’t let go of wanting to give her things.

There’s a selfish part of me which would love to find a way to secretly send gifts without letting her know who sent them, but that would be terribly unfair. It would be a violation of psychological boundaries. I won’t do it, but my heart wants to.

When I was young, I enjoyed getting gifts just as much as anybody. For months before Christmas, I wore out the pages of the Sears Christmas Wish Book, dreaming of what I wished someone would give to me.

But getting presents just because they’re things I’d like to have isn’t that enjoyable anymore. There aren’t that many things I want — and the relatively few I would like to have are very, very expensive. So the only presents that mean anything to me are the ones which show that a giver has spent the time and thought to come up with something that’s perfect for me, even if it’s not expensive.

The more mature I get, the more I mostly want to give.

I want to give delightful things to a wife — things which she would love, things which she would never have bought for herself, maybe things she thinks she doesn’t deserve. I want to give things to a little girl and a little boy — things which will make their eyes light up with joy and give them hours or days or years of enjoyment.

Having the inspiration for such gifts is magical. It makes my heart sing. Buying such gifts and then delivering them (or having them shipped) to the person I love is exciting. When it’s a gift which is truly thoughtful and right for someone — that feels like giving a piece of my heart.

It’s only a curse when you want to give and you can’t. And that’s where I am tonight.

I’m very eager for the day when I can once again give my heart and my mind through gifts to one I love.

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There was a time when I was idealistic enough to believe that if a writer expressed his thoughts clearly and simply enough, any bright and honest person would understand his point. I know better now. We all bring so many unconscious assumptions to the things we read that we often see what we expect to see instead of what the writer intended. This is incredibly frustrating to me as a writer, but I’m trying more and more to just say what I need to say — as clearly as I know how — and then ignore the inevitable responses which show that others perceived something which was not intended. I have to write for those who “get” where I’m coming from, not for those who see my words through personal filters that change my meaning. I hope my intentions are clear to you and I hope what I write can be useful to you, but if not, maybe my work just isn’t right for you. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

I found out this evening that someone I casually knew killed himself last Wednesday. I didn’t know him well — and I never found him personable — but he had started work a couple of months ago at a restaurant where I go. He was a 26-year-old who struck me as a confused and unhappy person, but I didn’t think much about it since he stayed to himself and resisted my efforts to chat with him. It turns out that he had a history of depression and had a lot of gender confusion. He seemed very androgynous to me and I learned today that he presented himself as female in some situations. He was rejected by a romantic interest last week, so he went to the woods and killed himself. His body wasn’t found for three days. It’s tragic how miserable people around us can be and how we so rarely know the truth about things they struggle with.

I’ve been with people for most of this day, but I feel lonely tonight. I’ve had things on my mind for the last few days that I feel the strong need to talk about. I need someone to share my thoughts with — someone who’s interested in ideas and how they affect us. Someone who gets excited to discover new things and can find joy in seeing new ways those things might change our lives. I feel lonely tonight because I painfully remember what it feels like to have that — and I’m craving that sort of connection. I miss having someone I can call and say, “I’ve been reading something and it’s sparked some thoughts I want to share with you.” Those sorts of conversations have lasted for hours for me in the past — or for thousands of words if it’s an exchange of mail — and it feels wrong that there is nobody who wants to hear such things from me tonight. I used to think being lonely was about being alone, but I understand now it’s a longing for one particular person. The loneliest place to be when you need one person is in a crowd composed of people who cannot be who you need.

I don’t agree with everything the late Neil Postman wrote, but I would argue that no other recent scholar gives coherent structure to the last few hundred years in the way his books do. I’m currently re-reading his book, “Technopoly,” and I’m comforted to have a scholar give structure and definitions to things which I’ve observed and barely understood. I was enough of a technophile when I first read this book that I bristled at much of what it said. I didn’t want him to be right and it was easier to dismiss him as a Luddite. But as I see technology continue to enable an information glut which is changing society for the worse, I find comfort in his explanations for how we got here. I don’t yet know the solutions, but I finally understand the problems more clearly. I suspect that much of what we need to make life more meaningful can be found in things we accidentally threw away in the past to make room for technologies. I strongly urge you to read the book and think about its implications.

I’d like to write a modern version of “The Emperor’s New Clothes” — a more cynical one — with a realistic ending for today’s audience. In this new version, the little boy points out on social media that the emperor is naked but nobody listens to him. Instead, everybody keeps posting grander and grander praise for the emperor’s non-existent clothes. The cognitive dissonance makes the people unable to hear the child who tells them the truth, because they’re getting social media praise — likes and so forth — for their lies. The confused child eventually feels so defeated that he shuts up and walks away. He’s so hurt and disappointed by this that he withdraws from the world and spends years in therapy, trying to figure out whether the rest of the world is crazy or if he’s the crazy one. Ever since I was a child, I wanted to be that little boy, but few want to hear the truth today. Either I’m crazy or else our culture has gone insane.

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