When recently faced with the pile of wrapped-but-not-given Christmas gifts at the end of my more recent relationship, I remembered a story that my father once told me about his childhood. (Actually, like most of my father’s stories, I’ve heard it far more than once.) My uncle Peter, my father’s older brother, used to give my father gifts that only Peter would want. A science kit of some sort, perhaps, or some other oddity that my father would have no interest in. Then at the crucial moment of gift exchange, Peter would say something insulting to my father who would inevitably say, “I hate you! I don’t even want your present!” Thus, Peter was given familial credit for giving his little brother a gift, and yet was in possession of the science kit that he had longed for.

After looking mournfully at the pile of gifts sitting in a corner of my apartment gathering dust, I realized that perhaps I should treat myself by unwrapping them. As I tore through the paper, I started to grasp why Peter took the approach that he did, and I saw that I had inadvertently done the same. Here, finally was the Seinfeld box set that I had been hoping (to no avail) that Santa might bring me. And a pair of socks with glow in the dark skulls on them that would look smashing on my gorgeous gams. With each present that I opened, I realized that luckily, I had only gotten gifts that I wanted myself, and I was intoxicated by the fact that they were mine, all mine. A glimmer of hope flickered in my mind, and my future gleamed with the shiny glow of consumeristic bliss.

During this painful, yet exhilarating, recovery phase, I’ve also found that buying expensive jeans and polka dot sheets have brought me some solace. I’ve tried to spend time attempting to understand the real me and have posed such philosophical questions to my mother as, “Is it possible to be attracted to someone’s language usage?” and “Why do I find the use of the word ‘hyperbole’ when pronounced with an English accent so incredibly titillating?” I’ve tried to understand these things about myself, and barring that, accept them, and spend more time in hot tubs. I’m not sure if that will help, but it certainly can’t hurt. I’ve been searching for answers during these long days of introspection, but thus far I’ve reached few conclusions. I have, however, vowed to clean my apartment more frequently, and I can’t honestly ask more of myself than that.