The weekend after Thanksgiving, my parents always had me make a list of the people to whom I wanted to give Christmas presents, which then would magically appear under the tree with my name scribbled proudly in the "from" section of the gift tags. (My input into the actual gifts was saved for a later age after I cried for a full day because I couldn't give everyone on my list clouds and pickles — my two favorite things at the time.)
But when I got my first part-time job, my parents tried to instill in me some sense of responsibility by having me pay for my own feminine- hygiene products and fancy shampoos, and Christmas gifts for other people. Suddenly, the family bottle of Prell didn't seem so déclassé, and it was a sad year for those folks who were used to getting gifts from "me" that came from my parents' considerable holiday budget, I can tell you that.
Then one year, I came into what was a considerable amount of cash for someone my age, and come Christmas, I gift-shopped with total disregard for the cost. That Christmas Eve, too excited to wait until morning, I headed out for a surprise visit to my then-boyfriend — only to find him canoodling under the mistletoe with someone else. I hightailed it back home, tossing curse words and brightly wrapped boxes out the car window along the way. When I stopped for gas, all that was left was a gold Claddagh ring and an obscenely overpriced leather jacket — both of which I unceremoniously hoisted into the confused gas station attendant's arms. This is going to sound like a bad Kenny Rogers Christmas song circa 1982, but I still remember the exact words he said after I convinced him that I wouldn't regret giving away those things to a stranger: "You got no idea what this means to me. Now there'll be something under the tree."