Being with the people you love, pretty lights and the sharing of memories are nice.
But I find that with Christmas comes expectation which can be difficult to meet.
I love Wanda dearly, and always want her to be happy. So I filter through my befuddled mind a thousand options which might make her feel as appreciated as she actually is.
This is, of course, an impossible task. We live together. We buy what we we need.
And being a humble couple in retirement years, we have most of what we want.
The conclusion you might come to from all that is that a card might suffice, a box of chocolates, some flowers perhaps.
If only it was that simple. You see, they’re Valentine’s gifts.
A Christmas gift should be something she’d want, yet something she’d never buy for herself during a normal everyday shopping experience.
Believe me, that cuts out a lot of options.
Vouchers have no meaning because they show no enterprise. Cash and scratchies fit in that bucket.
Diamonds are appreciated, but well outside the family budget. She wouldn’t appreciate the dip in bank balance.
Every since I bought a t-shirt with Chewbacca on it, clothes have been off the table. Including shoes.
Although I have a fair idea of the type of thing Wanda likes – colour, style, tone, length – there’s an apparent nuance in fashion that I’m yet to understand, and probably never will.
So I go searching for novelty items.
If I was to buy any form of household goods, I’d be shunted to the kennel with Wags.
I remember my father bought my mother an iron once because she said she needed one. He was convinced it was thoughtful. It became a gift to himself. He became the family ironing expert, obsessed by it. He knew every crease on every shirt and pants in the entire house and pushed anyone away who wanted to have a go of “his” ironing board.
So vacuums are helpful, yet insensitive. Even those ones that roam around from room to room chasing after the dog are out of bounds.
I’ve considered perfume, but it seems there’s a scent for every birthday and Christmas for the past 10 years in Wanda’s bathroom cupboard.
Make up products are, well, what the hell would I know? I’d be well intentioned, but poor Wanda would be rouged up like a circus clown if I got it wrong.
I looked at technology. She has a phone, tablet and laptop, watches most of her television on mainstream channels, blended with the occasional pay television series which we’ll generally binge together.
Maybe a Game of Thrones mug. So yesterday.
Lingerie – clothes. Pyjamas – clothes. Sock – clothes.
Maybe one of those massage guns, the ones that act like a nail gun on repeat and, at our age, put shoulder sockets into rehabilitation.
Should I buy her an experience? A Gold Class movies ticket? A hot air balloon ride? A helicopter ride?
Good thinking, Wayne. But I’d probably have to go along too, which means it’s not personal anymore. And what sort of person would send Wanda in a helicopter alone?
Maybe a nice bottle of her favourite tequila. Probably doesn’t want to do that alone either.
Homewares are not personal enough, although I do know there’s a nice recliner she’s had her eye on for a while now. Yes, mine.
Maybe his and hers recliners is the go. Then I remembered the reason she’s been looking at my favourite chair. She wants it taken to the tip.
You see what I mean, right? This is hard.
I know my endearing love should be enough. She’ll tell me it is, but I know there’s that underlying later of expectation.
Oh dear, I need some hints.
Hey Wanda, I know there’s only a few days to Christmas, but do you want to go window shopping?
