The other day, my co-worker and I were talking about the beauty of thank you notes. I told her I was raised to write a thank you note every time, for every gift, and that I still do it to this day. She said she does the same, and then proceeded to blow my mind: as a kid, she wasn’t allowed to play with, touch, or otherwise engage with any toy or gift she got until a thank you note had been written.
That is some diabolical next-level shit, and I AM HERE FOR IT. Reason #462 why I wish I could procreate: I’d do the same thing.
I love thank you notes. I love writing them, even when I hate writing them. It feels… official. Formal. Like, I can say thank you a million times, but if I send it to you in writing, then I mean it and you’ve got permanent evidence of my gratitude. C and I wrote a good portion of our wedding thank-you’s while we were on our honeymoon, and it was a lovely way to relive our gratitude. Not just for the gifts, but for the people who showed up for us on such a huge and wonderful day. I had it in my head to send thank you’s to everyone, present nor not, just because it meant so much; I don’t know that I ever did it, but certainly, the gifts were acknowledged. I wouldn’t and couldn’t rest until all the notes were sent.
I keep a lot of the thank you notes I’ve received from my nieces and nephews. They’re funny, sweet, and the handwriting is a heart-tugging way of seeing them grow up. I’ve written before about the value and importance of hand-written notes from that perspective; getting a note from your nephew and having it hit you that he’s not 7 years old anymore, and he’s got a teenager’s handwriting… it just does something to you. Like seeing the change in your own writing as you age. Or that of your mother’s hand.
Thank you notes aren’t everyone’s bag, and really, as time passes, the beauty of a written note seems to be getting lost. I don’t hold it against someone if they don’t send a note, because I know it’s a thing that not everyone values, but I gotta say, I love them and will probably always send them – even if the recipient says it’s not necessary. Maybe not for them, but it absolutely is for me.
And that brings me to the topic of presents.
Over the last few years, I’ve gotten progressively more unreasonably rabid about not wanting physical gifts for Christmas (or birthdays, or anything else for that matter). Some of it stems from not wanting people to blow their money, some of it comes from not wanting to be at the mercy of someone’s idea of what a good present for me might be, and a lot of it comes from the practical side of my brain: if you’re going to spend money on me, then put it in the form of cash so I can buy groceries or some shoes that don’t have holes in the soles. Give a gift card to Lowe’s or something so I can get a new dishwasher or a light fixture.
Practical presents, instead of giving something just for the sake of giving something. Especially if it’s something I’m going to have to figure out how to discretely donate or hide or dispose of. That just seems like a waste, all the way around, AND there’s a self-inflicted emotional guilt component to it that I loathe.
Giving presents – and expecting presents – at Christmas has lost its magic for me, for some reason. And I have to think there’s more to it than just practicality, because it’s… visceral. Maybe it’s because I don’t have the money to buy what I’d want to for people. Or maybe it’s because I’m not the type to be super thoughtful about gifts, you know, like someone who manages to find something perfect and perfectly suited for the recipient, and it’s something you’d never think to get for yourself but it’s awesome? Yeah. I’m not that person. And I don’t ever want to spend money on something that a person wouldn’t want, nor would I want to inflict a gift that they’re going to have to “manage.”
And why are we giving each other presents, anyway? Why is there an expectation of gift giving? I mean, I get it. It’s fun to see wrapped presents under a tree. Fun to see little kids get excited and tear through everything. But then, at some point, it becomes perfunctory, an expectation, and the magic is gone. Of course, there’s the original religious aspect to the whole thing, which may very well perpetuate the magic for the believers, but for the rest of us…
If I’m being honest, I probably love getting presents, and it’s just the guilt of not being able to reciprocate because I’m broke, coupled with a total disdain for EXPECTATION OF THINGS (because expectations = disappointment and premeditated resentments), that has me feeling like I just want to cancel Christmas. I don’t know. It all makes me feel like a scrooge.