The Birthday Present

I watched hesitantly as he unwrapped the paper. He looked happy and relaxed, surrounded by family and friends. Just seven of us were here to celebrate with him, and it was my first time meeting everyone in a group. I had previously met his sister and his best friend on separate occasions, but I hadn't been to a larger gathering like this yet. The party had barely begun and I was already feeling out of my element; I could count on one hand the number of gatherings I had been to in the last decade. In the rest of my life I was usually self-assured, and at age 35 I was too old to be worried about what most people thought of me... but in his sister's grand apartment overlooking Central Park, surrounded by people who spent more money in a month than I made in a year, I felt itchy. 

We had arrived together. In the elevator coming up I had asked him to open my present first, because I hated waiting. He beamed at me and squeezed my hand, and said he would. After getting settled with drinks and appetizers in the living room, we had a torturous 45 minutes of conversation and I ached to sit next to him on the couch. I was perched on the edge of a leather ottoman in front of the fireplace. Everyone else was seated together in a lopsided U-shape on the large sectional couch and two chairs, facing me. I felt like I was on display. Like a “poor relation” invited out of pity; the artsy writer-girlfriend of the birthday boy with my inexpensive tennis shoes and frayed jeans from Target. (I suspected that no one else in the room was wearing clothing purchased from a store where they also bought their dog food.) It didn't bother me that I wasn't as slim or as young as some of the other ladies. No, what bothered me was the wealth divide: the yawning gap between their polished and manicured lives and my patched and ragged existence. Underneath the polite conversation and the gaiety of laughter, there was the nagging and acidic feeling that I wasn't good enough to be there.

The worst part was that none of that came from them. The entire group was polite and effusive, welcoming me into their social circle with questions peppered into our chat. What were my favorite restaurants back at home? When was my next book coming out? Was this my first visit to the city? And did I want to go shopping with them this weekend and see a museum? Warm, friendly, welcoming. If any one of them had been rude or dismissive, or even slightly bitchy, I would have felt better about it. At least it would have given me evidence for my suspicions that I was an outsider; given me something to bristle at and fight back against. But no... the entire prickly ball of inferiority was birthed and nestled inside of me. It was insult with no injury; no one had wounded me. There was nobody else I could blame for the crawling terror that prickled the back of my throat.

I excused myself to use the restroom and stood at the mirror, staring into my own face with resolve. I would not let this thing get ahold of me. I would behave myself, be polite, and not show a trace of the discomfort I was feeling to anyone. I would be warm and witty and on my absolute best behavior for the remainder of the party. I could fall apart later, back at the hotel when I was alone and safe behind locked doors.

I washed my hands and dried them for a second time, delaying. I realized that enough time had passed that it would look weird if I stayed in there any longer. I pinched the web of skin between my index finger and thumb (an old stress-busting tip that someone had given me years ago - it didn't work). I took three deep breaths in through my nose and blew them out through an o-shaped mouth, chastising myself silently. You can do this, dummy. Just go back to the party. Dumbass. That helped somewhat. At least self-abuse disguised as "tough love" felt familiar enough that it grounded me a bit.

On the way back to the living room I glanced into the dining room and a wave of panic washed over me again. The immaculate dining room table with its dark and glossy wood glowed in the low light from the chandelier. A magazine-perfect cake stood in the center of the table, next to a stack of fine porcelain dessert plates and a row of tiny gold forks. At the head of the table sat the small pile of birthday gifts for the guest of honor. The exquisitely wrapped, tasteful, minimalist gifts from his friends surrounded my own bulky, lumpy one. I had chosen cheerful and whimsical paper, an aqua background scattered with cartoon bananas. A hot pink envelope enclosed what I thought was a hilarious birthday card, and I had secured it to the top of the gift with yellow and black adhesive tape that said "Crime Scene - Do Not Enter." The entire ensemble was slightly squished and rumpled from being crammed in my suitcase for the flight up. Compared to the other gifts - a slim black velvet jewelry box, a heavy envelope with a silver bow, a large cube perfectly wrapped in dark burgundy swirls, a creamy white paper bag, and others - my present looked like actual crap. My brain flailed panicked thoughts at me: Could I take my present and hide it? Could I just tuck it back in my bag and make him open it later? Jesus Christ, it looks like a kindergartner wrapped it.

Just as I contemplated running for the front door, his sister appeared at the end of the hall.

"Oh, there you are! We were wondering what happened to you. Come with me!" She smiled warmly and took my hand, leading me back to the party.

"Everybody ready for cake and presents?" She beamed at her brother. I gulped, my throat suddenly dry. As everyone picked up their drinks and milled around for a moment, I walked up to him and gave his arm a quick squeeze. I leaned close and murmured in his ear, hoping that nobody else would hear me.

"You don't have to open my present first. In fact, I should probably check to make sure I took the price tag off. Can you give it back to me and I'll just re-wrap it real quick and you can open it later?"

He furrowed his brow at me. "It's fine, babe. Don't worry about it. I'm excited to see what you got me." He wrapped one large arm around my shoulders and placed a warm kiss on my temple.

I was trapped. All of my escape hatches were barricaded and doom was now inevitable. I trudged to the dining room behind everyone else. My legs felt numb, carrying me along without my consent (the traitors). I reminded myself to breathe, and tried to hang onto the hope that after this torture, I could go back to the hotel and sink into a scalding hot bath. I could even cry if I wanted to, or wrap myself up in the hotel robe and eat snacks while watching movies in bed. This would be quick, if not painless.

His sister guided me to a seat along one side of the table, nestled between her and his best friend. I was grateful for someone to talk to while I studiously avoided the sight of my DIY disaster. It practically glowed, like a neon beer sign hung by accident between framed Picassos and Rembrandts. Tacky.

His sister busied herself with slicing the cake and handing out plates and napkins. I chatted about nothing with his best friend, taking tiny bites of cake and wiping my mouth delicately with the fine linen napkin. God, was I even allowed to get icing on it? I tried to relax into the chatter, reminding myself that as weird as I felt, I was an invited guest. He wouldn't have brought me here if I was too much of an outcast, or if he thought I might embarrass him, right?

After a few minutes the birthday boy clapped his hands once and said, "Presents!" with a gleeful grin. I chewed the inside of my lips and turned toward the head of the table. Zero hour. The moment of reckoning. Maybe death would come for me before I had to endure this humiliation.

He grabbed my gift first and smiled at me. I fought the urge to snatch it from him and run, hauling ass down 5th Avenue with the nuclear football tucked under one armpit. I gulped and took a swig of iced tea. A dribble of ice-cold liquid escaped my lips and ran down my chin, landing on my shirt. My inner voice offered nothing but sarcasm: Fantastic! This is excellent! Decorating yourself with spills is making everything better! I dabbed my chin with my napkin and forced myself to smile at him, watching him mock-shake the gift as he held it to his ear.

"Is it a puppy?" Everyone laughed.

I clenched my teeth and felt my cheeks burn with heat. I wanted to scream at him, “Just throw it away, open something else. It's not good enough! Just burn it!”

He pulled the envelope free, tape tearing the thin paper at one corner. He opened the card and chuckled, providing the tiniest measure of relief; at least my sense of humor had found a soft landing spot.

He turned the gift over and ran one thick finger under the flap. I took another sip of tea and waited, my vision narrowing to focus on the ice floating in the amber liquid. God, please kill me now.

He opened the paper and pulled out the book, a faded hardbound volume of Shakespeare's sonnets, published in the 1940s. I had used my very best fountain pen to inscribe the inside cover with purple ink, "Happy 40th Birthday. Love, C." A homemade bookmark was tucked inside - a strip of delicate origami paper stiffened and lacquered with layer after layer of glossy Mod Podge - marking the page that had his favorite sonnet. Underneath the slim volume of poetry was a folded pair of midnight blue dress socks. I had struggled with the fine merino yarn for weeks, testing and rejecting knitting patterns until I had settled on a simple cabled ribbing. They were some of my finest handiwork, far more delicate and sophisticated than my usual chunky acrylic yarn slipper-socks.

The room seemed to explode with voices at the big reveal.

"Did you make those?"

"Let me feel them! Oh, they're so soft!"

"Can you teach me how to knit?"

"Those are gorgeous!"

"Thank you honey."

I smiled at him and watched him tuck the gifts back into the ridiculous banana paper, handling them with far more care and attention than they deserved. I wanted to cry as he opened the next few presents: a bottle of his favorite high-end scotch, a fountain pen that I knew cost more than my TV, a wristwatch from some luxury brand that I had never heard of, and more. Unwelcome tears pricked my eyes as I tried to make polite conversation and choke down the last bites of my cake.

Finally, blessedly, the evening wound down and he announced that he was ready to go. As he thanked everyone for a great birthday I accepted handshakes and waves goodbye, and even a quick hug and a peck on the cheek from his sister, who extracted promises from me to have lunch with her the next day.

As we got into the elevator I slumped against the wall, exhaling a low, shaky breath of relief. He held the large bag full of gifts in one hand, his coat slung over a forearm. I knew disaster was about to strike, that I wouldn't be able to look at his handsome face and kind eyes without crying. I fixed my gaze on the toes of my scruffy sneakers.

"Are you okay?"

"I... everyone was wonderful. I really enjoyed seeing your sister again." I trained my eyes on the elevator display panel, watching the numbers count down. Tears threatened to overspill.

"You seem upset."

"I just- I don't...." I wiped at my eyes with the back of my hand and whispered, "I feel like an idiot."

"What? Why?"

The tears came hard and fast. "Because I gave you homemade socks and a used book and everyone else gave you really expensive presents. I don't fit in. It's embarrassing."

"I loved your socks. Nobody has ever given me hand-knitted socks before! They're great."

"No, they're lame. I'm not rich and I don't belong here and I just want to go home."

"Hey, hey, come here." He folded me in his arms and rested his chin on the top of my head. Two different flavors of humiliation washed over me: the sting of inadequacy overlaid with a varnish of shame about my outburst. I sobbed into the open collar of his shirt as the familiar scent of his cologne enveloped me. I wanted to take back every word, cover up and hide my shameful feelings, and pretend that I was brilliant and cheerful and good enough for him.

"I just feel so stupid. I should have known they were going to give you nice stuff and I'm just sitting there with my lame-ass gifts. I may as well have gotten you trash."

"Ssshhh, no, no. Stop it. I think they're great."

"No. You deserve someone better, who can get you nice things. I just..." I pulled away from him and hesitated before speaking again. Once I said this there was no taking it back. I stepped forward and plunged off the cliff.

"I think we should break up."

He looked at me with wide eyes. I saw horror and pain and the realization that I was serious wash over him.

"What the hell are you saying? That you want to break up with me because other people have more money than you?"

"No. I'm saying that I want to break up with you because you deserve someone more polished, fancier than me. Someone who knows all the rules and who won't embarrass you. Someone who's twenty-two and pretty, with money and the right family background."

His jaw dropped. "You're not serious!"

I sniffled and clenched my teeth, turning away from him to face the front doors of the elevator. "I want to go home. When I get back to the hotel, I'm going to change my flight back home and leave in the morning. I don't want to see you again."

"What?! No. You don't mean that." He grabbed my elbow and turned me to face him. "I love you."

I gritted out the last words I would ever say to him, filled with all the bitterness of my inner pain. 

"Don't. Call. Me."

The elevator opened and I marched out, pushing through the front doors of the building. As soon as I hit the sidewalk I broke into a jog, looking frantically around for a taxi, giving the driver the hotel name... it all blurred together in a wash of tears. The ride seemed to take an eternity. I barely registered the buildings and the city flashing by, trapped in a pit of my own pain and shame and stubborn idiocy.

Back at the hotel I collapsed on the bed, sobbing into the plush pillows until my throat was raw and my eyes felt like sandpaper. After what seemed like hours, I drifted down into a restless sleep, knowing with certainty that I had done exactly the wrong thing and that there was no taking it back. I had sacrificed happiness on the altar of misplaced pride and basement-level self-esteem.

---

The birthday boy walked into the lobby of his apartment building, head spinning with confusion. The much-anticipated long weekend had suddenly taken a terrible turn. Tomorrow he was supposed to show his new girlfriend around the city, take her to breakfast and sightseeing and lunch. Spend time to really get to know each other over the next few days. And now what was he supposed to do?

He unlocked his front door and hung his coat up. He got a drink of water, and then put the birthday gifts away one by one. The watch went into his top dresser drawer, the liquor into the kitchen cabinet. He left her gifts for last, sitting down on the couch to look at them carefully. He held the socks and traced the cables of the soft yarn with his fingertips, realizing how many hours had gone into crafting them. Confusion gripped his throat in a vise as he choked out a sob.

He opened the book to read the inscription, then gently flipped the pages to where the bookmark was inserted. A delicately penciled heart outlined the Roman numerals of his favorite sonnet. Tears welled up and he slammed the book shut. He re-wrapped the gifts and the card, nesting them carefully inside the rumpled banana paper. He went to his bedroom closet and turned on the light, reaching up on tiptoe to place the bundle on a high shelf, tucking it back into the corner farthest from the door.

He turned off the light and shut the door behind him.