It’s a Wrap

Last week, a girlfriend invited a bunch of us ladies over to her place for a morning of crafting.

It’s like she doesn’t love me.

Everyone was supposed to bring an art project to work on.

Quilting. Watercolor. Ice sculpture.

There were last minute Christmas presents being needled and actual gift wrap being wielded, and I kept my two left hands where they belonged: wrapped around a large tea mug.

I don’t do fragile and I don’t do fancy and I don’t do fussy.

Unless it can be done in five minutes or under.

Because I don’t do ‘focus’.

I will be working a cross-stitch, notice a bird fly by the window, and go immediately into the garage to build a bird feeder. No.

I’m lucky to wrap a gift to where you don’t actually see the gift peeking out.

For example.

When I did my classes in Canada this fall, I put together these lovely little packages to go with the lessons.

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That’s code for: I was standing in a room one morning, by myself, surrounded with gift bags, drifts of tissue paper, and piles of little trinkets, hyperventilating.

Cue the “Jaws” theme song.

I was already dizzy from having my west coast body clock yanked into the east coast time zone.

(Go east coast! Way to be first in line for the sunrise! Overachiever much?)

Now this project was a great idea, but let me tell you right this minute now: Gifts are not my Love Language.

I know this because one of my other classes was adapted from “The Five Love Languages” by Gary Chapman.

(You can take the test HERE if you want to know your own Love Language, the way in which you feel loved. I’m “words of affirmation” which is really no big surprise, people, but it is indeed the quickest way to my heart.)

So I understand that people feel loved when I hand them artfully wrapped tokens of esteem or thanks or congratulations or I-just-bought-you-a-birthday-present-last-year-why-are-you-still-having-birthdays??

But my forte, they are not.

“You and your big ideas,” I mumbled to myself, snatching at some yellow tissue and wadding up an item, “I thought you loved me. I thought this was gonna be the best fun ever.”

The tissue ripped in the middle.

I jammed it into a lavender polka dot bag before it could all fall apart.

It looked pretty good.

If a zombie with two left hands had attempted a festive origami Easter gift.

I only had 75 more to go.

Torture at it’s finest.

Anyway.

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According to my Love Language, my favorite part of this holiday is receiving cards in the mail, not the tree, not the presents, not the air hugs or group caroling.

None of this girlfriend bonding at the mall, maxing out the credit cards stuff.

Okay, maybe the part where everyone pitches in and cleans the house.

Oh, wait.

That Love Language is older than Ye Olde Englishe.

Not even a caveman can do it.

So.

For the sake of those I love, I shall sally forth into the blizzardy malls and throw money randomly into stores and ask them if anyone who isn’t a zombie can please wrap the things up pretty.

And my little fam will feel loved.

And I will curl up by the fire with a good book and feast on delicious words.

As my ice sculpture melts into its wrapping paper.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

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