The season of holiday gift-giving and receiving is upon us. It’s a magical time to consider what lovely things we can gift and reflect on what lovely things we have received and the care in which they were selected. It also brings up memories of some gift-giving gone wrong.
In 1981, I received my worst gift ever. My well-meaning relatives in Montana sent me a 3 pack of undershirts (each with a tiny satin bow) and a pair of dark blue Wrangler Jeans that were so stiff they crunched when I walked. I not only was long past the undershirt stage, but the mere suggestion that I still wore them was a slap across the face. Those were meant for children, and I was so clearly nearly a woman barreling toward age eleven.
Also, in 1981, everyone I knew wanted Gloria Vanderbilt jeans because they featured the gold embroidered swan on the pocket. A close second was Sasson jeans with their red logo, OK symbol stamped onto the button, and clever whipstitch detail. Wrangler had no swans and no OK stamps but did feature a large leather patch on the back that made it feel like you were constantly sitting on your own wallet.
The week my Montana relatives flew into town, it was expected I wear said jeans and get off the bus to greet them to demonstrate how much I loved their thoughtful gift. I cried. It was too large a burden for a fifth grader to carry, and the consequences seemed so dire. I believed if I wore them to school to obey my parents and I absolutely would be obeying (it was the 80s, after all), I would have no choice but to change my name, transfer schools, and start a new life the next suburb away.
My mom didn’t appreciate that I threw such a fit. Fits of this nature were never well received in our house. First of all, this was family. I was so embarrassingly ungrateful. Second, it was suggested that perhaps my aunt and uncle didn’t know what kids my age liked because their own kids were adults. And somehow, even the state of Montana was held partially liable for my misery. “This is what they wear and have available in Montana.” How Gloria Vanderbilt had not arrived in Montana yet was beyond my comprehension. I was trying to imagine this place, this distant fashion desert, and all I could picture were covered wagons and women scrubbing Wranglers alongside a river.
My dad jumped into solution mode and attempted to help me survive my Wrangler trauma yet still appease HIS relatives. He proposed I wear my long red chamois shirt with the jeans. Something along the lines of, “Jenny, this way nobody will even know what brand they are.” And so I set off bravely in my far too warm chamois shirt, pulled taut over my cardboard jeans, and gingerly walked the halls of fifth grade carrying my dark secret. It’s all I thought about all day.
I arrived home that afternoon. I got off that bus with my fashion reputation at school somehow still intact. It turns out nobody was thinking about my pants to the extent that I was thinking about my pants. The relatives came and went. Not one comment was made about how fetching I looked, strutting around robotically in my jeans. And to maintain my deep sense of personal dignity, the undershirts remained in the bottom drawer of my yellow armoire, still attached to the plastic hanger and never to be touched by my hands. I’m sure they were donated at some point to another girl who resented them.
I have tried to be a thoughtful gift-giver over the course of my life. And I certainly have become a more gracious gift receiver. Choose gifts wisely, my fellow shoppers. For the best gifts are not the most expensive. Not the most sought-after on any list. They are the ones long remembered. And please leave faultless Montana out of it.
Jen Fortner is a freelance writer who enjoys asking friends and strangers far too many questions. She spends her spare time sitting in inclement weather watching youth sports, traveling, cooking, and searching for the very best baked goods. She lives in Shorewood, Minnesota with her husband, three children and the most spoiled dog.