The present

Every September arrives, and I get nervous and itchy. That's when the presents season starts at home, or better, when I need to start working on the matrix of names, occasions, future, and past purchases. Most of the family birthdays happen between October and January. Thanks to our multicultural family composition and expat reality, we have three different Christmas-like celebrations between December and January. Then comes the terrible St. Valentine, and to end the celebration hell, our wedding anniversary, which I like but stresses me out crazy. By the time all has passed, and the fourth of March arrives, I feel like a bear that needs to go into hibernation and rest for six months. Unfortunately, no bear could ever sleep in a house with three children, two dogs, and a needy partner. Everyone has dreams, but it does not mean we all get what we want. That's why I am happy with my eight hours of sleep on workdays and nine on weekends. I am a part-time- bear; that's the best I could compromise with.

But this is not a story about how much I like to sleep, or how many presents I got for family and friends. This is about one person and one gift. This is how my search for the best anniversary present turned my life upside down in just a few hours. Yes, you can change your life with a simple click, but it does not mean it works as you thought it would... but I am getting ahead; let me tell you what happened on a mighty February day. 

The itchiness and nerves were worse than ever this year. Our twentieth anniversary was approaching, and I had no idea what to offer my husband. After so many years together and a lucky and comfortable life, it reached a point where finding anything new, interesting, and unexpected seemed more difficult than losing the ten extra pounds I always complain about to my friends. Presents- speaking, Christmas had been disastrous. I bought him socks and pajamas and "allowed" him to buy whatever he wanted for his photography gear, which means he purchased his own present. We always joke about how many cookie points we have in our imaginary "couple's cookie jar" based on how we behave with each other. I am convinced I lost many of my "cookie points" this Christmas. Still, Peter did not complain (or comment), which helped me overcome the shame of caring for everyone but him.

I promised myself I would be better on Valentine's Day. Although the lover's day was never of great significance to us, I decided to use the occasion to redeem myself. I thought about concerts, theatre pieces, and restaurants, which forced me to think about babysitters and sports practice schedules. Then, the older kids' exam schedules appeared on my agenda, and the support requests increased by the day. I didn't fancy algebra when I was fourteen, and I don't fancy it much anymore now, but once more, we do what we have to in life. Then I realized I had been spending more time with the teenagers and less with the seven-year-old, so we planned more playdates and crafts sessions. And work. I had to work. And home chores did not stop (if we don't clean the floor three times a day, thanks to our horse-size dogs, we live on "The hairy planet" ). And then, on the thirteenth of February, the day before my redemption day, while buying groceries and thinking about what I should cook for dinner, I bought a postcard and a box of chocolates... despite Peter's goal to exercise and get on a diet. In a single shot, I managed to kill his health week's objectives and a few extra cookie points of mine. I was on a disgraceful strike, but I was never one to give up. I still had one opportunity, and nothing would come my way to be the most incredible, dear, and caring partner ever... fingers crossed.

I had three weeks to come up with something, and I had never needed a good idea so much. Peter did not speak much about my less-than-remarkable celebrations, but I knew he was sad about it, even if he did not care about material stuff. When we met-- many years before-- we lived fast, spending all the time we had partying and traveling together. We moved together relatively fast and bought our own place soon after. Then, quickly again, I got pregnant, and we became a family. We were both young and ambitious, so a baby did not stop us from working like crazy to get what we deserved. We were like rubber bands, compressing schedules and stretching time. Time passed, and we had more babies, work, and different houses. No matter how much we had (or not), we had each other, and that was the best present ever, but twenty years passed, and routine became a hard guest to kick out of our lives. One day, I had an idea while cooking dinner and taking care of the laundry (multitasking is one of my many skills). I was stirring a sauce when the timer on the washing machine started beeping. I rushed from my bolognese to the laundry room, still with the spoon in my hand, and saw a bling inside the machine.

The clothes were finishing the washing cycle, and when I was staring for a couple of minutes at the hypnotizing turns, the smoke detector started to scream. The terrible sound startled me, and I fell against the too-full laundry basket. The alarm continued, and I tried to stand up, but when I placed my hands on the floor- now covered with dirty clothes- I let the dirty wooden spoon fall. Now I had sweaty sports clothes with tomato scent (and stains... many stains). I looked for the broom and hit the smoke detector. The little bugger shut up when I smelled it... the reason: my sauce was burning. I rushed to the stove and took the pan out of the heat, hopeful to still have dinner, but there was nothing to save. I opened the kitchen windows and realized I was breathless while the black smoke was leaving the room. I looked outside and tried to remember the last time I had gone on holiday with Peter, with no rush, multitasking, cooking or taking care of kids, laundry, homework, horse-sized pets, or school duties. I looked at my dirty hands and saw my reflection on the window glass: the oversized t-shirt covering my belly, the messed up hair bun, the tired face... and just then, it hit me: I had to take care of myself, and Peter was trying to take care of himself as well, so we would do it together! Alarmed by the smoke—apparently, the alarm was not disturbing enough for them to rescue me—Peter and the kids came downstairs asking about dinner. I quickly picked up my phone and announced that pizza seemed an excellent idea. I threw the pot into the garbage and started to think about the details of my mastermind plan hidden in the bathroom until the delivery guy knocked at our door. In the past, I had been able to negotiate a walking closet for myself, but I never thought I would miss having a mother-panic room when we renovated the house. The next best thing turned out to be a bathroom with a lock on the door.

A few hours later, after dinner, bear-beauty-sleep, and morning craziness, we took the kids to school, Peter went to his office, and I returned home to start the working day. I checked gyms close to our place for a couple of hours, but then I remembered Peter did not like those places much. He told me once they seemed to him human-size hamster cages with toys to keep people entertained and happy while a few trainers looked at their pets. No gyms. I then considered the option of a personal trainer to take care of us both and train outside. Still, unfortunately, we don't live in a sunny place, and running under the rain did not seem the perfect plan to keep any of us engaged. Another option was to forget about the sport, clean the fridge and the pantry, and hire a chef to feed us. Still, I was sure the kids would rise against that system and make our lives hell, so I quickly passed that option. 

I was browsing on my computer when something else appeared: a sports app to keep track of our results. That could work. We could promise to care, protect, and support each other as we had done twenty years before. It would not be just a present, but the vows to improve our life together. I felt over the moon. That was a good idea! I opened the app with the best reviews in the app store and filled in my data with name, address, phone, height, weight, and photo... but I had no photo to share. Did I want to share a picture of my belly? I looked again at the terms and conditions of the website, and I felt much better: I did not have to share my (potential) transformation with the world. It was just something nice to have. A little bulb illuminated on top of my head as it happens in the cartoons-- or maybe I pushed the switch-- when I looked at my image in the bedroom mirror. No one was supposed to see my photo, but I could choose someone I wanted to see it... I still had time. Peter would not be at home for at least another hour. I looked into the deep of my socks drawer, where I kept some spicy lingerie I had not used for ages. I tried all the pieces and chose a leopard set that had made me feel like a sexy kitten a long time before. Looking at the mirror, it was clear it was too tight; I could barely breathe, and I was squeezed by tule and ribbons. Despite that, I convinced myself I was beautiful independently of the weight I'd gained in the last years since that set had fitted perfectly. I picked up the phone, opened the camera, and started to shoot: looking up and down, right, left, touching my hair, doing faces... what had started as a plan to lose weight had become a sexy photo shoot in front of the mirror, slightly ridiculous but entertaining. After one hour of modeling, I chose one of the images. I uploaded it to my app precisely when I heard the main door opening. I rushed to put my jeans and T-shirt on top of the leopard-strangler- set and ran downstairs to welcome Peter. I had made it. I had the perfect plan and a spicy add-on to make him laugh. And the best was that I did it with a good margin! There was still a week until our anniversary, and I did not have to worry about anything else. We would go out for dinner, and I would share my plan and vows of a healthy life... what could go wrong?

The next three days, I felt so good... I could dedicate my time to the whole family without that feeling of failing someone (my special someone), and since I had worn "the strangler," I felt a bit more confident about my shape. After all, I would be taking care of it in the following months and years... and that lasted precisely three days, until dinner time on a mid-week day. There I was, serving salad and grilled chicken, when my daughter explained what they had done at school. They were discussing the news as part of the sociology class, and the trending topic was diets and how people see themselves in the mirror. I was about to share how school was for me when I was her age and ask about any doubts she might have about the topic when she added something:

"Apparently, there is a new trend... #Flufflycat."

Everyone around the table started laughing. I also smiled, trying to make sense of that hashtag and the topic in question. My daughter continued her speech:

"You know, those people who share their progress while losing weight? Well, they used to do it in a bikini or sports clothes, but for a few days, the new trend is to do it on lingerie with leopard prints... everyone around the world is going crazy! It seems it all started with a sad housewife claiming to be sexy independently of her shape or weight, and now everyone is copying her, adding #Fluffycat to their profiles!"

Everyone was laughing: the kids, Peters... Even the dogs seemed to be laughing, looking at us. I didn't. I had a terrible gut feeling.

"Did you see the photo of the sad housewife?" I asked.

"No, our teacher considered it in bad taste, so we didn't, but we could look for it now..." My daughter picked up her phone. My son stood up to grab his. Peter was already typing...

"No!" I screamed! "Don't!"

And then, there it was, my profile photo in my sports app, with the comment I had written below, dedicated to Peter, the one I was going to show him a few days later: "No matter the shape, this will always be yours."

No one was laughing anymore. Around the table, the faces went from funny to funeral in two milliseconds. I just wanted to disappear. My seven-year-old then said:

"Mum, this lady looks like you!" 

Making an effort to keep a normal conversation, I just replied:

"Yes darling, she does..."

"She's pretty... and funny," he continued.

The other kids looked at him, and so did Peter.

"She's dressed up like a cat, right?"

"Yes, she is. And I think she is beautiful too," Peter replied, holding my hand under the table.

I was mortified. I excused myself and ran to the bathroom, where I opened my phone to check the app. Then I realized what had happened. While creating my profile, instead of "just saving" my photo, I said "Hello," making my profile visible to the whole sports community, a few million worldwide. I had thousands of messages on the platform and message boards claiming #Fluffycat was the best that had happened to them. Many had written about the need to forget about shame about our bodies. I just wanted to disappear from the surface of the Earth. I might have spent two hours inside that bathroom, sitting on the floor and scrolling messages and photos, when someone knocked at the door.

"Are you ok?" asked Peter.

"I'm not sure," I replied. "I think I will move here for the next million years."

"Mum, I have something for you," said the little one while a sheet of paper slid under the door. It was a drawing of a cat- with boobies- wearing a bikini and many, many, many hearts around it. I did not know if I should cry or yell. Instead, I laughed. I laughed a lot. I really liked that cat. I took a photo of it and entered my profile page. I changed my image to the one my son had drawn, and I opened the door, where I found my whole family smiling at me.

"No comments, please," I said.

They all nodded, and we continued our night as if nothing had happened.

A few days passed by. I worked from home and avoided going anywhere. I used hats and sunglasses whenever I left the house. I looked like a villain from a spy movie. None of my friends called, texted, or spoke about the infamous Fluffy cat trend, which had been discussed and joked about time over time in the news and late-night shows. On the day of our anniversary, Peter told me we had a table in a nice restaurant and that no silly photo should stop me from living my life. I agreed with him. I got dressed, arranged my hair, and put on some makeup. I left the hat and the glasses at home and held his hand to leave the house. We arrived at the little bistro half an hour later and, to my surprise, all our friends were there. Friends, kids, many other family members... all dress like cats, tigers, cheetahs... I looked at Peter and told him:

"I just wanted my present to be special for us, to do it together..."

He smiled at me and put his fingers on the side of his trousers, sticking out a little piece of his underwear... a leopard boxer.

"Happy anniversary."