Like Annie Banks in the iconic “Father of the Bride” scene, I, too, would have been annoyed with a blender. In the film, Banks, a soon-to-be-married woman, nearly breaks off her engagement after receiving the kitchen item as a gift from her fiancé.
In tears, she explains to her father, played by Steve Martin, that she’s canceling the wedding. A blender was more than an appliance, more than a tool to “blend things.” It was symbolic: a device to cut away at her independence.
Because this scene personally resonated with me, I shouldn’t have been surprised when my husband responded similarly after opening a sexist Christmas gift I gave him.
I should say in my defense: My husband is notoriously hard to buy presents for. It’s not that he’s picky; it’s that he’s hardly materialistic at all. He wears years-old shirts with holes and acts content with only two pairs of jeans. His hobbies include running and biking — and he already owns the shoes and has already purchased the bike. While I could purchase accessories for these activities, he isn’t interested in making his pursuits any more complicated.
It is a dream to be married to a person this low maintenance when it comes to consumer goods. That is, until you’re trying to purchase a meaningful gift at Christmastime.
What to put under the tree for a man who doesn’t seem to want anything at all? Well, certainly not tools, I learned the hard way about a decade ago.
On Black Friday, a local hardware shop was running a sale. I’d been shopping for family Christmas gifts: dolls for my nieces, perfume for my mother, and, of course, several items for myself. I’d stocked up on items for everyone on my list — everyone, that is, except for my husband.
When my father — a member of a professional woodworking association — encouraged me to help my husband round out his own workshop, I thought this sounded like a great idea. With my dad’s direction, I piled my shopping cart high with wrench sets and clamps, pliers and nail guns. It was all very practical, very masculine and very discounted.
On Christmas morning, my husband and I — newlyweds at the time — sat by our artificial tree and opened each other’s gifts. I hadn’t given my husband a list of what I wanted, but he picked out a sweater he noticed me eyeing at the store and some yoga gear he knew would enhance my practice.
And then he opened my gifts to him. There were many of them, a dozen at least, and every single one of them contained a variation of the same thing: tools.
At first, his facial expression was controlled as he made his way through the lot. As he continued to open gifts of screwdrivers and handsaws, he began to scowl.
Eventually, after unwrapping the last of the pile, he asked me one question: “So, are you trying to tell me I need to do more around the house?”
To be honest, I hadn’t thought through my choices much at all. I knew I needed to get him something — and tools seemed like as good a thing as any other. I assured him that my gifts were not attempts to communicate a veiled message of dissatisfaction with his household contributions.
“Don’t you think these presents are pretty sexist?” he continued. “This would be like if I bought you a vacuum cleaner.”
And in this comparison, I knew he was right. Even the man who didn’t seem to want anything at all still longed to be seen at Christmas time.
In O. Henry’s famous Christmas story, “The Gift of the Magi,” the couple — Della and Jim — sell their most prized possessions to buy the other a Christmas gift. When Jim sells his watch to purchase tortoiseshell combs, Della sells her hair to buy Jim a platinum watch chain. Neither realizes that their generosity and personal erasure is negating the other’s gift.
The beauty in this classic story is not the narrative of self-sacrifice — this is actually the tragedy. What makes the tale inspiring is the way the protagonists truly see the other. They recognize what their partner is most proud of, what distinguishes them from people in a room. They do not view their partner as a type, but as a rounded human being.
“I’m sorry,” I told my husband that Christmas morning as he piled up his disappointing gifts and lugged them to the basement. He accepted my apology quietly, and later, would gloat about how much better he was than me at picking out thoughtful presents.
The tools are still stored in our basement. Months after opening my gifts, when a vintage doorknob came loose in our upstairs bedroom, my husband used the wrench to secure it. And when our dog tore through the wire on our screened in porch, he seemed happy to have a nail gun. I, too, have had countless opportunities to use the gifts that I gave him.
But that doesn’t mean they were great gifts.