A Gift is Just a Gift – How to Not Meet Expectations

Right after Thanksgiving the holidays pounced on us, like it or not. And whether or not it’s a religious holiday for you, everyone is expected to participate. Macy’s, KMart, and Home Depot, and all the rest, will be sure that you don’t forget: expectations are upon you.

That is, if you accept those expectations.

This holiday season I remembered a gift that my uncle once gave me. I was in seventh grade. It was a box of Wheaties. Yes, that orange-colored box with cereal in it. Healthy, and high in fiber (and preservatives). None of us believed it. “There must be a real gift inside…?” But the boxed was wrapped with wrapping paper–it was the gift. The top was sealed. “This must be a collector’s edition…?” But there wasn’t anyone significantly important on the box. “Hmmm.” We concluded, “Must just be a box of cereal. Huh. That’s weird.” We chalked it up to his being in law school, and poor. And a bit quirky…anti-establishment.

Not only did I think about that box of Wheaties recently, several times, but realized that I was fantasizing about giving similarly cheap, odd gifts to my family this year. As if to say, “This is the best I could do this year, this gift will not complete you, and I hope you will be satisfied with what you already have.”

I felt rebellious this year. Why must I shop, why must I try to psychically determine what gift would mean everything to my dad, stepmom, sister, brother, and fiance?

Well, because of course I expect myself to give the perfect gift. I used to be able to do that. I’m wired for it! I was raised to know others’ needs before my own. I know what will make others happy! My gifts can make you happy! But, wait, that self-expectation is an old, scratchy sweater that doesn’t fit right anymore.

If perfection is an old scratchy sweater, then what does someone who no longer expects herself to buy the perfect gift do when shopping season opens? What does fit? What’s my new gift-buying philosophy?

Well, I started by fantasizing about buying cereal for everyone — or, whatever my version of cereal as a gift would be. Maybe a box of Kleenex (everyone has a cold right now). In any case, the Wheaties fantasy helped me. It lowered the bar. It calmed me. It helped me detach from buying The Perfect Gifts.

My Wheaties fantasy allowed me room to breathe, the space to determine what kinds gifts (if any) I wanted to give. Lowering the bar truly removed the pressure. Down at the bookstore, when I wondered if my stepmom would like the book I was considering buying for her, I thought, “It’s better than a box of Wheaties.” Done.

I really do like giving gifts. Expectations aside, it gives me pleasure to do it. What I have mixed feelings about is watching people open their gifts. I suspect that this stems from watching too many narcissists open presents over the years. I recall hearing phrases like, “I just don’t feel very loved,” after all presents were opened. As if Christmas is the blank line we fill in once a year that describes our feelings for one another!

I think that most people could care less what’s inside a wrapped box. I’m psyched to receive just about anything. But some people–uh, narcissists–open presents seeking themselves. They approach gifts with a narcissistic mind, believing that your present to them is a reflection of them. They believe your gift is an expression of who they are in your eyes, which, naturally, is extremely interesting to them. But, of course, your gift does not define them, reflect them, or justify their existence. It’s just a gift. The best you and I can do is to detach from worrying about how a narcissist reacts to your gift to him or her. Whatever their reaction is – that’s theirs. You did your bit by giving something that’s better than a box of Wheaties.

Let’s get real.

If the gifts we give people reflect anything deep, it’s an attempt to make someone feel joy, even if briefly — to give someone a treat, some mystery, and the childish joy of tearing paper and the glorious sensation we have while seeking what’s inside.