I have this horrible paradox in my personality: I love surprises and hate it when they’re blown. But I also compulsively try to figure things out, even when I have next to no information to work with.
Many times over our almost sixteen years together (that counts dating), Pete has said seemingly benign things about gifts he’s gotten for me, or surprises he was planning. Without fail, though half of me wants desperately to leave the thing alone, my overactive little mind has worked the puzzle until the secret is no longer a secret and the element of surprise is obliterated.
But this Christmas, everything is different.
First of all, he apparently got my present more than two weeks ago. I hadn’t even found one for him yet. That’s remarkable from the guy who bought his brother’s birthday gift (a t-shirt) about two hours before we lit the candles on the cake.
More importantly, he has been astonishingly, admirably, stubbornly mum. All I have heard from him, after the initial admission that my gift has been purchased, is the mumbled sentence fragment, “Don’t know.”
“Where is it?”
“Is it in your car?”
“Have you wrapped it yet?”
“Is it a weird shape or something? Is that why you haven’t wrapped it? Are you having trouble finding a box or a bag for it?”
The man will not even look at me during the mumblings because he knows that I can interpret the tiniest smile or twinkle in his eyes.
Frustration has never been so much fun.