Soon, I will be 32. I have survived another year. Usually around this time, I just want to be left alone, and avoid celebrating like politicians avoid the truth. Inevitably, I’m lucky enough to have the following conversation a number of times:

What do you want for your birthday?
Nothing.
No, seriously.
No. Seriously. Nothing. I’m good. Thanks, though.
You have to pick something.

I do?

I’m grateful that people ask, but I never really want anything. Given my odd tastes, I have a hell of a time finding things that I like, nevermind asking other people to try to figure the puzzle out. People still try, which I appreciate and find unusually amusing at times (that’s you, Dad), but the results are usually bad. I always feel bad that they spent the money, and not to be ungrateful, but it’s never what I really want. I don’t really want things. I get uncomfortable getting gifts, and they weigh me down, albeit for a short time.

Usually, I will be directed to make a small list of CD’s and the like, but I never end up really wanting any of the marginally interesting things on there. Everything that I list is peripheral. Like my old friend, if I really wanted it, I would have bought it already. The list that I make is merely for the giver to give from, so that they don’t have to waste time running around.

Last night, as I was doing exactly this, I thought, I’m not doing this this year. I have everything that I need right now in terms of tangible items. If birthdays are really about the person having their way for a day, and not about just buying things to make the giver feel good, then my wish is to not have any tangible gifts this year. Maybe I should explore that as some sort of control issue. Maybe I get more out of a kick out of giving than getting. Maybe I’m just some freakin’ weirdo who makes mountains out of mole hills. I don’t know.

This year, I’m not writing the list.

So, if you want to give me a real gift, give me strength, laughter, kindness, empathy, wisdom, or anything that can fit on a page of a notebook. Tell me a story. Tell me a secret. Tell me a joke. Take the money that you would have spent, and buy spend it on some random act of kindness, or leave it where only a child can find it. Make me a list of songs that you can’t live without or a recipe that makes you proud. Or send me a picture that I can put up to prove to the burglars that I have friends (Please honor my strict “No nudes from Dudes” policy. This goes x100 if your name contains “Rico,” “Palatzo,” or “Rico Palatzo”). Then, tell me the story.

Or send some flowers to my parents and thank them that I’m here and not too damaged.

But don’t visit BestBuy. I’ve already been and it’s really, really empty.

Posted in #1GF!