So I had to buy a present for a 10-year old boy. Now, I don’t have a 10-year-old boy, and I was never a 10-year-old boy myself, so you can imagine how clueless I felt. And how stressed out. I mean, what does a 10-year-old boy even like?
This is what I ended up buying the boy.
I picked up a Hardy Boys book, then at home, realized that was probably the Dark Ages to him. So, the next morning, I got a top (also Dark Ages) – now it’s called a Bay Blade. Then I thought that looked too small as a gift. So, I bought him a toy rifle. Promoting violence! Oh no! In desperation, on the way to the party, I bought him a TShirt, which later looked too small and a glow in the dark bedsheet, which may or may not glow in the dark later that night. So, bearing 5 wrapped gifts, I drove my kids to the party- and finally slipped the Mother a larger-than-she deserved currency note, telling her to please buy her 10-year-old boy something he liked. She gave me a look that said, ‘You couldn’t even take a minute to buy it yourself?’
It’s a genetic flaw. I cannot buy a present right.
I once gave an old cheerful aunt who is full of the love of life – a pair of Nike sports shoes – to meet her and find out she’s bedridden with arthritis. I gave someone a house-warming gift of wine glasses to be told they are rabid tea-totallers, who frown seriously on alcoholic people.
I wish I could be like S, who gives everyone books. He doesn’t seem to care too much whether they read the book, or they’ve already read it, or they never will. He just enjoys spending hours in a book store, and buying a book he likes himself.
Perhaps, I should have bought the 10-year-old boy something I liked? Like a pair of pearl earrings?