Christmas arrived, and I still remember sprawling under the tree in my favourite cotton pyjamas opening up my first present – two tiny dog figurines. Every present I opened was something I had mentioned, casually or with desperate longing, in conversation weeks earlier, and I had to lie down (on my new doona!) with an icepack later that day to cool my poor, over-extended grinning muscles, still wriggling in delight at my bounty.

It was only years later that I realised that my family had been terrified I was going to die from a severe recurring allergic reaction, and they had decided I was going to have the perfect gift—whichever one it was on my list.

Christmas seems to be the time where the pressure is on to find That Special Someone (or, usually, several Someone of Varying Specialness) THE GIFT TO END ALL GIFTS. You know, the present that will make their awesome/average/contented/unhappy/whatever life perfect, due solely to YOUR incredible benediction. The pressure to perform is immense, intense and usually doomed to failure. Any shop open at 11pm on Christmas Eve bears witness to the madness that falls on the present procrastinator, to be surpassed only by the desperation felt by the receiver the next day on trying to hide their horror/dismay/fury/hilarity/confusion at the object sitting/rolling/leaning/hopefully-not-breathing-or-whining in their hands.

There’s danger inherent in gift giving. Maybe they won’t like it. Maybe they’ll even say so. Maybe the time, effort and inspiration you put into that present will be tossed away, unappreciated. Maybe the little token you pass to someone is taken to mean something it doesn’t, spiralling you both into future madness and chaos? Maybe the pressure is just too much?

Because after all, if my secret wish for several Christmases was to be locked in a (super-lush) hotel room for 24 hours on my own, unable to speak to, see or touch another person, what was the likelihood of getting that perfect present? Particularly if I didn’t tell anyone? Particularly knowing it simply couldn’t happen? Sometimes the perfect gift just isn’t possible.

Except in our own private, For-Segullah-Eyes-Only wish list! So, ladies. An hour’s go-carting? Learning how to scuba dive? A 48-hour movie marathon? To not have the baby on Christmas day? The ability and opportunity to dance like Beyonce? A particular book and uninterrupted time to read it in? A “Get out of Gaol/Jail Free” card? If you could receive it, what would be your ‘perfect present’ this year? (And in the interest of Miss World/Universe/Perfection 2011, requests for ‘world peace’ will not be accepted).

What is your wish? Do you tell people your wish-list? Do you expect to receive a present this Christmas? Do you know what it is? If not, do you think it will be a good one? Have you ever received a particularly perfect or appalling present, and if so, details please!

Related posts:

1. The Segullah Christmas Gift Guide
2. The Case for Shopping
3. Stuff, Stuff, Stuff

I was giddy to be turned loose with money in a store (well if you can call the cafeteria tables lined with small plastic items a store).  Dressed in a cherry print flannel shirt and overalls with matching applique, I followed along in the line behind my classmates, clutching my envelope of possiblity as I entered the room of wonder. Table upon table filled with wondrous trinkets for the choosing. My childhood eyes were so easily seduced by all the glorious and gleaming treasures. I perused the selections stopping at a plastic Christmas house ornament with iridescent glitter and then I spotted them.

Boppers.

You know those glittery balls on springs attached to a headband.  You have to understand I was a child who loved  sparkly things.  My sister was the imaginative one, but  from an early age I, I was the lover of beauty. And to a six year old nothing tops the aesthetic chart like glitter and rhinestones. In fact as a child, I probably would’ve sold my soul for a mere ounce jar of multicolored glitter. All of my classroom art projects dripped with glue, and were so saturated with copious sprinklings of glitter that I left a magical gleaming trail wherever I went.

I picked up the bag of boppers. The glittery shapes waving gently on the tenuous springs, beckoning to be bought. Truly this was the perfect thing for Christmas, this was after all the season of twinkling and sparkling, beauty and magic.  I was always wise and logical beyond my years.   I was, I am sure, smart enough to know that my parents would not likely share my deep and immovable desire for boppers and see them as an essential purchase and somehow I didn’t trust Santa would remember to get this critical item on the list mixed in with the Strawberry Shortcake doll requests. So I seized the spirit of the gift giving season and did what any self respecting child would do I forked over the money and came home with the plastic ornament (which I figured could suffice as a group gift for the rest of my family) and the boppers. I wrapped them up and placed them under the tree.

 To: Leslie From: Leslie

The tag on the package proudly bore my best printing. Between that and the mistletoe our teacher gave each of us (a tradition I had yet to encounter) I knew this was going to be the best Christmas ever.  Well, Christmas morning brought a good round of laughter from my family. They were quite amused at my true embodiment of the “season of giving” spirit. They were left to share the plastic ornament (albeit with glitter decor) while I proudly sported my own pair of boppers. This story has gone down in the Whyte family Christmas lore and I never escape a Christmas with a reminder of this infamous incident.

The boppers are long gone, probably crushed by the packers during a childhood move. The ornament however remains in a place of honor on the tree probably an ironic testament to the “better to give than receive” mantra.

But for the record I still love glitter and mistletoe and buying myself  the occasional To Leslie From Leslie Christmas presents (however I don’t buy them at Santa’s workshop anymore- this year it’s coming in the form of a charcoal gray couch)

Share with me some of your memorable Christmas memories (good, bad or embarrassing)? What have been your most meaningful or memorable gifts?

Related posts:

1. The Case for Shopping
2. Reproaching ourselves at Christmas time
3. Stuff, Stuff, Stuff