It was my birthday on Sunday, and I had to be “the bad son” when mother called to ask whether I liked my gift.
Long story short: I didn’t.
To back up a bit, I arrived home last Thursday to find this waiting outside my door:
I knew instantly that it was from my mother– she’s really the only one that sends packages like this and my birthday was nearly here.
Upon closer inspection, I notice this:
This both excited and worried me because:
A) she probably spent too much
B) whatever was in the box could be either really cool or really not my taste
C) it’s a very large parcel and I have a small place
As the days passed, the more anxious I became. Buying gifts for me is a tricky affair. If you pay attention And note any of the myriad of things I point out as cool and stick to buying those things– piece of cake!
But if you strike out on your own and buy something that you think I’ll enjoy because you “know” me— well, cake wreck.
Anxious as I was, I was a good boy I waited until my actual birthday before I opened it. So, with a fresh cup of coffee at the ready, I cracked open the box yesterday morning.
And this was what was inside:
A chair. My mother sent me a plastic chair.
And while it’s an interesting chair, I was a bit puzzled by her gift selection. And quite honestly I didn’t know what to do with it.
At last count, I am in possession of no less than 13 chairs/stools/benches, not including this new one.
It doesn’t fit at my dining table. It doesn’t work as an accent chair anywhere because I honestly don’t have any area I want to accent in this manner.
Being plastic, it technically could go on my balcony– but I already have a set of two chairs out there. So a singular chair does me no good.
And to top it off, the chair was ungodly uncomfortable.
I’m not just saying this to be cruel either. I desperately tried it out in the hopes it would cradle my ass in such comfort that I would dash to my computer and order another one that very day.
The pitch of the seat and height were exactly wrong for my legs and there was an odd lump right under my ass which made any lengthy reclining absolutely untenable.
Needless to say, I immediately started to panic. My mom was going to call at some point and want to know what I thought of her gift. What was I going to say?
If it had been a small tchotchke or similar item, I would have spared her feelings and said I loved it, only to stash it away in the deep recesses of some obscure cupboard or box.
But a chair? From the MoMA store?? It was far to large and expensive to to shrug off. No, it would have to be returned.
And I would have to tell her.
Which I did.
The disappointment in her voice was palpable over the phone. And I felt so shitty for telling her that I didn’t really like the chair. And she felt so bad that the one gift I got on my birthday was a stinker.
Her heart is so in the right place, but I just couldn’t let this one go. And I had to be the bad son.
Despondently she said I should just return it and she would stick to gift cards from now on.
I know Target cards aren’t a creative or thoughtful gift, but they make up for it in practicality.
With a gift card I could get a new coffee maker. I only have one of those, and it’s on it’s last legs.
And which is something I’ve been bitching about and window shopping for over the past 6 months.