Gifts for the partner: the big trap

Great expectations
Gifts for the partner

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Great expectations? Can only be disappointed. In the discipline of lousy gifts for the partner, our columnist is consistently a lonely top.

Don’t need a Mayan calendar from Xultun, carved into a fig tree bark, to know that doom is approaching. Your birthday. My end And the same question every year: What am I giving you? It’s easy for me. I like gifts that are useful, or solve problems, or just for fun. Things that have a power plug or need 9 volt blocks.

Love is in the details

For you it has to be original, authentic and creative. You want a gift that shows affection and understanding for your likes and needs. Everything else is clutter, junk, junk and leads to frustration, arguments and crises. You also suspect that there is a hidden message behind every gift. Or am I just guessing that you guess? Anyway, I’m different. Don’t question why you bought me a pair of underpants that says “small” on it. And not “boss”.

You must have given me indications of your wishes, you certainly did. So in front of which shop window did you sigh? Which catalogs do you leave open on the table? Have. I. To forget. Man want to do everything right. God laughs.

I have no idea, but I’m already thinking about the wrapping paper. The less well thought out the content, the better the packaging has to be. Love is in the details. Or was it the devil? In any case, I now know that aluminum foil does not go down so well, although it glitters so nicely and doesn’t need glue.

Apocalypse salsa dance class

The biggest problem: you already have everything. And too much of it. Except for shoes, of course, they always work. But if you give a woman shoes, my grandma always said, one day she will run away from you in them. That’s probably why men get socks so often.

Should I make something? When it comes down to it, I’d have a heart made of felt, clay, and plaster of paris. But it’s too late for gifts you have made yourself! So this year no set of hand-blown wine glasses and a matching port wine, the grapes of which I stamped with my feet.

Suddenly feel a process of decomposition in me. Like a large piece of meat, hastily devoured. With heartburn, a memory sloshes high in me, a bad memory that is heavy in my stomach. What you wish for, what you really want is: a joint salsa dance class. This is the apocalypse. And that calls for a sacrifice.

BJÖRN KRAUSE at least serenades his girlfriend. In the key of B-ashamed.

BARBARA 53/2021