Few things satisfy heart like giving thoughtful gifts to the ones 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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When I came home from a late lunch this afternoon, there were six or eight people gathered in the front yard of a house a couple of doors down from me. They were all dressed up, as though they had been to church for Easter and hadn’t yet changed. An older couple just moved into that house and I haven’t met them yet, but it seemed that they were with their son or daughter, maybe a sibling, and a couple of very young children. They were taking pictures and it took me back to my own childhood, visiting my grandparents in fancy Easter clothes and smiling for pictures in their yard. Holidays such as Easter and Christmas remind me in a small way of why I want a family. I wish I’d had a wife and children to be taking pictures with this afternoon. I still hope to experience that. And I hope you enjoyed your Easter Sunday, whether it was filled with a loving family or not.

I came home late Saturday afternoon to find that somebody had cut my grass while I was gone — and I had no idea who to thank. I walked around the neighborhood asking if anybody saw what happened, and I finally figured out it was my neighbor, Pedro. (That’s not his real name, but I’ve told you about him before.) He was cutting his own grass and did mine while he was at it. He even swept my walkway and porch steps. And he didn’t want any payment. He said it was no big deal. When I hear bigots talk about how we don’t need any more Hispanic immigrants and hear idiocy such as the notion that “we’re full,” I find myself thinking how much worse off I’d be without people such as Pedro. I’m grateful for his giving spirit. He’s a great neighbor.

I get a lot of email from people asking for advice. I don’t always have time to respond, but when I do, I like to remind them that the only reason I can offer any advice is that I’ve lived through so many of my own mistakes. In the coming weeks, I’m going to start putting out a series of short videos to answer some of the most common questions that I receive. I already have dozens of questions to choose from, but if you have a question that you think might be applicable to others, be sure to drop me an email. If I end up using some portion of your question, I won’t include personally identifiable details. I don’t know when the first video will go live, but I’ll be in the studio working on them.

Modern culture disturbs me. Sane lives are mocked and insane ideas are celebrated. I just read a story about a woman in England who “married herself” in 2015. A man had chosen another woman over her, so her response was to show everybody that she had no need for a partner — and she had a “wedding” with a dozen bridesmaids and they all danced around in the street as she “married herself,” with some guy dressed like a high-church priest. Nothing says, “I didn’t really need you,” like this sort of bizarre exhibition, huh? The woman then wrote a novel about a woman who married herself. None of this will affect me, of course. We’ve always had iconoclasts. I’m a bit of one myself. But it seems as though modern culture has become one huge freak show — and it seems unhealthy.

There’s a little girl at the table next to me at dinner Thursday evening who makes me happy. She’s a second grader and I heard her telling her grandmother, “I have a thousand books and I’m going to read all of them.” A few minutes later, she asked her grandmother, “What does stupendous mean?” (I’m not sure I would have known that word in the second grade.) At one point, I asked her if she likes to read and her eyes lit up. “I’m going to write my own books,” she said. I don’t know what this little lady’s future is, but it made me happy to talk to such a bright and enthusiastic girl.

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