DISAPPOINTMENT UNWRAPPED
All eight cousins spread out on Aunt Mary Ellen’s living room floor as Bing Crosby crooned on the record player and the cigarette smoke curled through the air. It was our 1977 Christmas gathering with Mom’s side of the family. The cousins were biding their time playing in the basement while we waited for the adults to announce it was time for the main event: opening presents. Like every seven-year-old, I loved receiving presents. The white, itchy tights Mom made me wear with my Christmas dress were in a ball on the basement floor, and the spot on my velvet dress was still wet with the drink I spilled earlier. I was strung out on dinner rolls, cookies, candy and Pepsi and rode the high of weeks with no bedtimes and long days of playing in the snow.
I wiggled impatiently as I sized up the three gifts before me. One from my Gaga, one from each of my aunts. I tore into the box from my aunt Gretchen first. I threw off the box top and unveiled the item under the tissue paper: a paisley-patterned nightgown with slick flame-retardant material in reds and blues. Functional, I thought. I always needed a new nightgown. I tossed it aside to get to the fun stuff. As I scanned the room, I saw my cousins squealing with delight over gifts: Loves Baby Soft, Hot Wheels, Star Wars figures, and Barbies.
I couldn’t wait to see what awaited me. I tore open my next gift from my Aunt Mary Ellen. My mind raced with all the possibilities. I pulled off the box lid and froze. I felt the air leave my stomach like I had been punched as my mind was trying to catch up to what my eyes saw. A nightgown. Not just any nightgown. The exact same nightgown that Aunt Gretchen had given me. I quickly went through all the emotions as I sat with my mouth agape: shock, dismay, sadness, and anger. My mom clocked my mood from across the room and approached me.
Mom: (whisper) What’s wrong, honey?
Me: (tears) They both gave me nightgowns. The SAME nightgown.
Mom: (whisper) OK. It’s a cute nightgown. We can return one of them.
Me: (loud whisper) Don’t they even talk to each other? Why would they both buy me a nightgown?
Mom: (getting nervous as she tries to diffuse the bomb) I don’t know, honey. But you need to go and thank each of them and give them a hug.
Me: For getting me the same nightgown?!
Mom: (through gritted teeth) YES. Do it now.
So, with slumped shoulders and tears, I thanked my aunts. I spent the rest of the party pouting. Being gracious in the face of disappointment was never my strong suit. I would like to blame my reaction on all the sugar I had ingested. The overstimulation of Christmas had reached its boiling point. I wanted to believe that my horrible reaction resulted from staying up way too late for the last week since school let out. But it was just because I was a spoiled kid who loved presents.
This was the first of many of life’s disappointments. Life, after all, is just a series of two nightgown Christmases. I’ve spent the past 46 years refining my reaction to disappointment. It has evolved from crying and pouting to finding the silver lining in the unwanted outcome. I am proud to say that I would not cry or pout if I received two nightgowns for Christmas this year. I would happily have a backup for when I inevitably spill my coffee.
