Our first few holidays and birthdays together, I gave Crankenstein a wide berth when it came to gift-giving. She had more important things to do with her time than shop, and I’d rather select offerings for others than unwrap them myself anyway. But I’d be lying if I said her indifference wasn’t eventually insulting. If it’s really the thought that counts, what must she think of me? As she once joked, it’s as if she chooses my gifts by entering a convenience store and purchasing whatever’s closest to the register.
There was the year she gave me a copy of a book each of us already owned. The year(s) I was given caramel chocolates when that’s her preference, not mine. She once traveled to Chicago for a professional conference and promised to return with a particular frozen deep-dish pizza. Though she remembered to procure it, she forgot to maintain its temperature; it was flaccid as she handed it to me and said “Throw it out, it isn’t safe to eat.”
Several years into our marriage, she couldn’t remember the color I avoid wearing and naturally bought me a shirt in that shade. She knows I love spicy chips but forgets that I don’t enjoy them with a splash of limón. The year I told her I was abstaining from a favorite snack because of stomach irritation, she gave me a box of 30. Last year, as in several others, I prepared my own birthday dessert, confident she wouldn’t give any thought to it herself. This year, I didn’t bother. Neither did she, with anything. She neglected to buy a gift or even doodle a homemade card.
Crankenstein is capable of more than that. A couple Hanukkahs ago, she surprised me with an amazingly thoughtful pair of pajamas, the sort I’d always wanted but couldn’t justify buying for myself. (Think William Powell’s Thin Man pajamas, but in purple, similar to this.) It was meaningful because it showed she listens, even if it sometimes seems like she doesn’t. “It’s all downhill from here,” I joked after thanking her. This year she procrastinated ahead of my birthday, winter weather intervened, and she thought singing “Happy Birthday” and suggesting we try a new deli this weekend would suffice.
After the year we just had, and with the challenges we’re facing, I was underwhelmed. I didn’t mention it to our shared friends or family, who regard her as a lovable sitcom scamp and someone to be endlessly indulged due to her difficult past and demanding job — as if others don’t balance similar stressors without going AWOL at home. It’s frustrating that her days are planned down to the minute months in advance and I rarely make the list, and it’s embarrassing that she remembers almost everything she’s heard or read in her life, unless it pertains to me. These are old problems that haven’t changed.
I’ve come to resent the double standard that she deserves everything I can give her and more, while I should be happy with scraps in return. She doesn’t do it for nefarious or passive-aggressive reasons and I know she genuinely loves me as much as she loves anyone. It’s more that I’ve prioritized her needs and wants above my own throughout our relationship, something that was new and pleasing to her — and which she’s come to expect — without demanding the same in return. If anything, I’ve contorted myself like a pretzel at times to excuse her deficiencies in those areas.
For her sake and mine, I want to avoid doing that from now on. This year I’d like to gift myself some self-respect, and for Crankenstein to occasionally pause and ask herself “Would I want [Cranky] to treat me this way?” If the answer is no, adjust things accordingly. It costs nothing but time, which is all I’ve ever wanted from her anyway.