So it’s definitely that time of year where I go to the mall or insert your shopping center preference here and try to come up with an at least half-way decent Christmas present for the people in my life.  This year in particular was far more difficult than it usually is, probably because I had about a week to figure out what to buy for quite a few people.  And you know what?  There  is absolutely nothing in a store that I wanted to buy anyone.  Don’t get me wrong, I ended up with a present for everyone that I needed a present for, but I’m not exactly particularly happy with any of them.

Now that I think about it, I don’t know if I’ve ever been 100% happy with any present that I’ve ever bought because I don’t like to give presents simply based on a materialistic premise.  When I give a present, it’s because I like it to mean something.  For example, when I went to London in 2010, I brought back one of my best friends at the time a scarf of his favorite football team more as a promise that one day he would get to wear it at a game than a “Look what I got you from London isn’t this cool blah blah blah” gift.  And in my life, I’ve only ever been given one present that I was emotionally satisfied with (and you can read about that Here because I actually already wrote about it) because it wasn’t store-bought.  It was direct from my favorite novel, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, and from the person that I adoringly call Charlie, the main character of said novel.

So when it comes down to it, whatever I give or get for Christmas I’m sure will be lovely.  I’m sure that a lot of money will have been spent and there will be specific detail involved.  But in my truest heart, all I really want is some kind of reference to a book, like I got for my birthday.  Or a tv show I like.  Or anything, really.  But more than likely, those references aren’t things that can be bought.

I like things that are hand-written or hand-made.  Things that no one else on this planet has.  Things that are a part of who someone is, not created by a machine.  And part of me is probably hypocritical because I don’t do those things, but I’m simple.  Of course I’ve thought about what kind of gift I would give like that, and, to be honest, my perfectionist anal-retentive qualities make what I would like to do somewhat impractical.  My gift is my words, and sometimes they don’t always come out right.  Sometimes they need to be revised and edited.  And sometimes they just don’t come.  So I understand the need to give a gift from Target or Walmart or whatever.

But one year, if I think about it with enough time and enough ambition, I would like to sit down and write to each person for his gift.  And yeah, it won’t cost me much- practically nothing but the expenses of pens and paper.  But I can guarantee that it will be heartfelt.  And that it will be a part of who I am.  There is nothing more precious in this world than sharing who you are with someone.  There’s no price on that.

So maybe I’m too late this year.  My store-bought presents wrapped with good intentions will have to do.  But I’m promising myself that one year for Christmas I am going to give what I want to receive- a piece of myself that doesn’t come with a price tag.