First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
I enjoy shopping for and giving presents, and yet I began to dread family gift exchanges in my 20s.
Christmas should be a joyful time of year but for me it involves gift-opening anxiety.
One-on-one swaps with friends never worry me – it’s the large audience at Christmas that do. While gripping that mystery box or bag with a dozen sets of eyes on me, I’m afraid I’ll say something foolish or I won’t show the right level of appreciation. It doesn’t matter what’s inside the wrapping. Even if it’s a lovely and thoughtful choice, I’m afraid of how I’ll react in front of everyone. And what if the person spent too much money on me?
I struggle to control this overthinking.
Here’s how the unboxing and unbagging usually goes: My upper lip sticks to my front teeth and my grin feels fake. I start with a nervous giggle and hear my voice get louder, “Aw, how lovely … I really REALLY LOVE THIS, IT’S SO PERFECT!” Perspiration rolls down my temples.
For those who do not share this anxiety, it must seem like a small holiday wrinkle. For me, the annual opening event dampens my festive spirit.
While gifts for children are a given, what cruel Grinch carried the tradition over to adults?
One year really stands out for awkwardness. My husband and me kicked off the festive rounds at his parents’ house on Christmas Eve. Although Paul and I had been married for several years, I wasn’t close to his mom; I didn’t think she liked me. When Mother Muriel began passing out presents, I took a seat beside Paul on their couch.
I pulled off the wrapping paper from one Muriel handed me, and stared at the label until Paul cleared his throat. The room was silent, no Christmas carols playing, only the sound of a dripping kitchen faucet.
“These are … really PRACTICAL, THEY’LL BE SUPER COMFY.”
My mother-in-law’s present was a three-pack of beige, unsexy, granny panties, size huge. “Practical” and “comfy” were all I could muster with 10 sets of eyes on me.
When Paul and I were alone in the car, he said, “What was my mom thinking? Who buys their daughter-in-law ugly gonch?”
On Christmas Day we celebrated at my parents’ home where Mom handed me a small, heavy box.
“This feels cold, did you leave it outside?”
Mom flapped her hand. “Open it already.”
Grinning, I pulled off the foil but stayed quiet. I’ve learned never to say anything until I’ve opened the box. One year she used an electric can opener box. As I giggle-shouted that “I really NEED A CAN OPENER,” it turned out that the box held a candle, so then I repeated my gushing about how “I really LOVE CANDLES.”
I thought that this box was reused too, because there was a picture of a hamburger on the label.
Nope. Inside was a dozen frozen raw hamburger patties. And not lean but regular patties pale pink with fat.
I continued my routine – a few weird giggles and a forced thank you that grew louder while the perspiration above my lip beaded.
At least I wasn’t the only sibling to suffer; next, Mom gave my sister Linda a toilet brush and holder.
Things got so anxious for me that I asked Paul to role play and challenge me with worst-case scenarios. How would I react if I unwrapped a nose-hair trimmer or a medic alert bracelet?
Then a couple of years ago I decided to find alternatives for present exchanges. I began buying gift cards from the person’s favourite store or restaurant. And then I began to receive them, which made my reaction less stressful.
Today my Christmas “improv” with unknown boxes and bags has improved with practice, although I still giggle-yell and perspire more than I like.
And now I feel fortunate that anyone wants to give me presents. Instead of a “what were they thinking?” attitude when an Auntie hands me a pillow they’ve crocheted in vibrant colours from a fever dream, I feel grateful. And I’m better at controlling my stress level to help kick my “anxiety Grinch” to the curb.
Except with Mother Muriel. She still gives me her scary scowl and side eye when she thinks I’m not looking.
Like fruitcake, some Christmas traditions you just can’t change.
Shannon Kernaghan lives in Alberta.