My birthday is in about six months, and I’ve realized that I have no idea what I want. Obviously, this makes now the perfect time to come up with a list, but… there are problems.
Sure, there are lots of things that I want, but I’ve always found it somewhat difficult to make a list and say, “There. That’s all of it.” There’s always something else, something cool that I know I’d like, something I need but don’t want– something I want but don’t need. I’m never sure which kinds of things I should ask for, if asking for something utilitarian is insulting, if asking for something gaudy or tawdry reflects poorly on me.
I usually ask for socks. The kinds of socks that I get from each person says a lot about them and our relationship. Plus, one can never have too many socks. I recently received thigh-high rainbow toesocks and knee-high wool socks with skulls from my grandmother.
I also ask for underwear, but that’s mostly because I’m curious to see if the person I’m asking will get it. My grandmother? She bought me lime-green LEGALIZE GAY briefs, and I think I’m in love with them. I want to run around in those, a wifebeater, and matching green hair– but then, that’s kind of a recurring fantasy, so I can’t say it’s exactly tied to the underwear. (I say “fantasy,” but it’s not a sexual thing so much as a liberating idea. I look awesome in boyshorts and in wifebeaters, so give me the great urban outdoors and a rainstorm and I’ll be all set.)
I ask for books, because a new book– or another copy of an old one, because if someone is giving me a book I already have, that means a) they know me well, or b) they know I dropped my copy in the bath, or c) we have similar taste, all of which are good things that mean I’ll be able to underline one of the copies– is a wonderful thing. Asking someone for a book makes them think about reading, and let’s face it: Who reads as much as they’d like, nowadays, what with the internet and the real world? Getting a book means that I have another book!
These things, though, are all standard. I’ve asked for books, socks, and underwear my whole life; nothing’s changed. But about a week after my birthday or any other holiday, I’ll think, “Damn. I should’ve asked for a whipmaking lesson from my friend at the leatherworking shop.” Which, of course, I definitely should have, but I find asking for specific things petrifying, awkward, and the only way to figure out what the other person wants. If I’m asking for a whip, I’m always hoping I’ll find out what I should give, hoping the person who asked will give me an answer when I give them one.
Of course, I don’t just go up to a random person and say, “Hey, I’d like socks for my birthday, if you please.” But if someone asks, I need to have something to say. And when my grandmother asks, oh, ye gods, if my list isn’t at least twenty-five items long she gets afraid that she won’t be able to fulfill her grandmotherly duty. (I love her to death, but sometimes, being quite so enthusiastically accommodated is just a wee bit uncomfortable.)
So I have my list of things I know will always work, that I know I can ask of anyone– excepting the underwear. I have my list of things I’d like to be able to have, things that are symbolic of a lifestyle I cannot yet maintain, things like a color-changing showerhead (I live in a university dormitory for the majority of my time) or an enormous mahogany desk. But really, I think that the most accurate, terrifying list of all would be one detailing things I’d like to be spontaneously given.
When someone asks me what I’d like for my birthday, I say, “Oh, I don’t know. I was just going to eat popcorn and watch old Who, maybe make a cake or some cookies.” I have a birthday in the summer, which used to be wonderful– I could have beach parties, if I wanted to, but somehow that never happened– but now means that all my university family is spread across the world, accessible only by automatically-prompted Facebook congratulations.
Happy birthday! I set up a feature to tell me it was today, because I couldn’t be bothered to remember!
I’m being cynical, I know, but I still find the prompts on Facebook a little strange. At least, maybe the prompts shouldn’t have the option to write on the birthday person’s wall without ever going to it? I don’t know. But then, it’s better than finding out a day later and having to decide whether or not to post late. But, I mean, what if I wrote on my wall that I wanted everyone to go out and find a new favorite song, and to post it to my profile? What if no one ever saw that because of some stupid bit of convenience?
But then, posting something like that is something that sounds nice and wonderful– Go out into the world, guys! Experience something! DO something!– but honestly, it’s a bit irritating to be on the receiving end.
“What would you like for your birthday?” I’ll ask my mother. “Oh, I don’t know,” she’ll say. “Knit me something, or sew something. I don’t know. Write me a song! You’re creative.” It sounds like love, but to me? That sounds like a curse.
Now, not only do I have to do something personal, it has to involve time and effort and thought.
This is also made worse by the fact that I am supremely uncomfortable accepting gifts, but always secretly want them. Actually, I always want to give presents, too, but I guess the whole point of this is that I can’t figure out what anyone would want, least of all myself. There are things I want to give someone, things I want them to have, but I can never be sure if they would actually enjoy what I would be giving them.
I have this in sex, too, when I can’t tell the difference between something my partner brought up because they thought it sounded cool and something they brought up because it’s a secret fetish. If I’m fucking a chick with a fourteen-inch nubby glass dildo, I can’t tell at first if she’s moaning because the nubs are perfect or because she’s turned on by glass. (This isn’t a sign of terrible communication; it’s a sign of someone not knowing what they want. That exists, ya know, and it’s completely, utterly okay. Fun, even, because pleasure doesn’t always come from something planned. After a while spent with a single partner– sexually or nonsexually– nonverbal communication and very basic human understanding becomes so much easier.) But then it doesn’t matter, if they appreciate what I’m giving them– I can tell over time what they’re inherently attracted to.
I just wish I could do with gifts what I do with sex toys. Sadly, I can’t just give everyone sex toys, but damn if that wouldn’t be wonderful.
I’ve come up with a slightly more sophisticated wish list akin to the socks-underwear-books one but less prim. Socks, underwear, and books are still on there, though, and I put it here because I’m reasonably sure it’s the sort of thing I’d like to regularly update. Maybe this will help?
Courting the New Century 