Thanks, Honey. But I Hate It.

My husband and I are not what you would call gift people. Wait – let me rephrase that. My husband is not what you would call gift people. It's something I was quickly clued into after we started dating and his family pulled me aside and whispered the story of the year he gave everyone windshield wiper fluid and cans of Diet Coke that he picked up from the gas station on his way over for Christmas dinner.

I was thankful to have my expectations managed. If only they would have given me a heads up on his aversion to laundry.

Our birthdays are only days apart and because there's nothing more awkward than someone opening a big shiny gift as the wind whistles through the nothingness on your lap, “we” decided to nix it. Birthdays, Valentines Day, Christmas – mutual nothingness. Not that it was a fun fest trying to buy for someone who is, um, shall we call “particular” anyway.

I once tried to buy him a money clip because he carries his cash, credit/debit cards and insurance information around in a... wait for it... paper clip. Yes, I'm sure a 36-year-old man whipping a paper clip out of his back pocket to pick up the tab at a business dinner gives him just the credibility he was shooting for.

So I bought him a money clip. Nothing fancy, because, baby steps.

“Oh, nice!” He said. But I recognized the 'this is going back' smile the minute the wrapping was pulled back. I'm sure he decided it was something he didn't need before he even opened it.

Another year I gave him cargo shorts to replace his favorite pair that had a huge rip. Same size, same store, different brand. He returned them later that day, wearing the ones with the huge rip.

Despite our “no gift” rule, this Christmas I decided to go crazy and get him a new pillow, because the one he sleeps on now has the thickness of two loose leaf papers taped together. I went deluxe. Memory foam, cooling... this thing did everything short of get your omelet ready when you wake up. And, God love him, he tried to like it.

“This is... different,” He said with a look on his face like I had just given him a bloody, severed head.

“You don't like it,” I said.

“No... no. I just need to... get used to it.”

I heard him tossing and turning all night, huffing in exasperation as he desperately tried to get comfortable. The third night I finally let him off the hook.

“You know, if you don't like that pillow I'd be happy to use it.” It was on my side of the bed before I finished my sentence, and that night he slept with a smile on his face laying against his flimsy street sign.

It's hard not to take it personally. I put a lot of time and energy into picking out something I think he'll like, all the while silencing the voices in my head telling me I'm wasting my time. I was just so optimistic that I could one time, just ONE TIME, be victorious.

Also, I feel like society demands that husbands and wives are supposed to give each other gifts. There's nothing worse than answering the question, “What did you get your husband for his birthday?” with “Oh, nothing”.

Actually, there is something worse. When you are asked, “What did your husband get you for your birthday?” and you reply, “Nothing”. Everyone gives you this look of pity while they think, “Good lord – my husband may have cheated on me with a hooker he paid for with the money he stole out of the church offering plate but at least he got me a birthday gift!”

To his credit he tries to like what I give him. He just doesn't. He likes things the way he likes them.

While it drives me crazy that he carries his money around in a paper clip, wears shorts with a rip and sleeps on an oak leaf, he's good with it.

So I should be too.

Maybe next year I'll get him a new pair of women's Uggs, size 8 ½.

_{Image: iStock}