The Greedy Love Language

A few years ago, and much earlier in the morning than I would like it to be, I sat in class tapping my feet and etching song lyrics into an old plastic table. I dreaded this 7 o’clock in the morning, 50 minutes. It was a room without any good distractions, besides the times when I was lucky enough to be sat by the wall so I could undo the tweed wall covering with a freshly sharpened pencil (a waste of a good Ticonderoga, but under the circumstances it was excusable). Besides the picking of my pencil against the wall or into the textured surface of a folding table, the room would be mostly silent. The teacher would pose a question only for nobody to say anything in response. I sympathized with the students who didn’t want or know anything to say — brains feel a lot more empty at 7 a.m. in the morning — but there was also a part of me that would feel bothered for the teacher who relentlessly tried to coax inspiration out of underslept teenagers. We were like the opposite of everything good about a mule. We had the stupidity of a horse and the stubbornness of a donkey.

I could say that the day I am about to recount was something big and great and wonderful and deserves one of those fancy cursive embossed letters to start the sentence like some fantastic old fairytale, or overhyped classic. But it wasn’t. It was like pretty much any other of those boredom-filled class periods. The teacher rattled on about the given topic (the benefits of gratitude), and we, the students, feigned listening or gave up entirely and concocted a makeshift bed in our plastic chairs to account for lost time stolen by our alarms earlier that morning. The teacher talked. The students continued to pretend to listen. The teacher asked a question, and the students neglected to reply, or that one kid who always answers everything did it if he happened to show up. But after a particularly long pause, the teacher pretended as if his question had been rhetorical (maybe to lessen the disappointment in participation), and then continued on with an anecdote about having gratitude for the expressed love of others. And then he said something along the hazy lines of,  “My love language is gift giving, so when other people try to express love through acts of service, or ….” The thought continued after that, but I had tuned out by then. I was instead absorbed by an intense sourness. Like drinking expired buttermilk, or how I think a baby would react to eating goat cheese for the first time. I had heard about the idea of the 5 love language before but had dismissed it like I had dismissed astrology or enneagram types (but for your information, I am a Libra — not because I believe it though). However, at this moment, it hit me that maybe they were real because this one was definitely the worst one. Gifting? Just wanting? Just getting stuff from others? It seemed like a lazy way to say that everyone should buy you things so that your relationship is ‘real’. It seemed stupid is what it seemed. Or at least it seemed stupid then.

The thought of this one-off remark resurfaced in my brain from time to time. The funny thing was that the impact softened a bit. I didn’t hold as much hate for it as I used to, but that only came about through practice, and understanding, that I too consider gift-giving to be my love language.

But, in the words of Barack Obama: “Let me be clear.” When I say gifting is my love language, I don’t mean ‘please get me a new phone and a ticket to Disneyland and a new handbag and a new chinchilla because the last one died a tragic death and new mittens because my hands get oh so cold’ yada yada. That would be extremely Veruca Salt coded of me. I mean that if it really meant something, someone could give me a blade of grass as a present and I would cry about it (in a good way).

Where I had gone wrong is that I had looked at gifting as something purely transactional. As something where either person in the interaction could be ‘bought’. And while I don’t deny that manipulative people are definitely lurking somewhere like in the aisles of an abandoned Toys R Us waiting to curry the favor of a helpless child with a new Lego Set, that is not the majority. 

Gifting is something we grow up with. Birthday parties filled with glamorized Barbie Dolls and mani-pedi kits, or older coming-of-age moments where a $20 dollar bill is slipped inside the folds of a ‘Congratulations Graduate!’ card. Maybe when I was 5 years old gifting was more simply a way to show that yes we are friends because I am giving you this rainbow playdoh. But it bloomed from there. Gifting became beautified and boiled down to the goodness of someone's heart. It was moments like when I was going through a particularly hard time where I had chosen to shut myself off from the world and my childhood friends had come to the door with a plate full of homemade Oreo-type cookies. It was the time that in that same year, my mom’s best friend came to our door with a new Nalgene water bottle and some powdered lemonade drink mix and just gave me a much-needed hello and a hug. It was when my grandma passed down her collection of Prismacolor pencils to me to draw with after she had lost her sight. It was when I opened the door on an overly hot summer's day and there was a vase of unfortunately slightly wilted, but still beautiful flowers and a ripped piece of paper with my name on it tied around their necks. You will have to believe me when I say that I am tearing up when I write this. Maybe I am just emotional today, but thinking about the times when these people had been considerate enough to bring the thought of me into their mental world meant and still means loads. And in those moments, not for a second did I think it was just because they were trying to endear themselves to me. And it was the same when the tables were turned and I was the one giving the gifts. 

At the end of my senior year of high school, our baseball team was moving up to whatever round of finals (I remember that it felt pretty important and tense but I really have no idea what round it was). My friend was supposed to get back from California that day but ended up testing positive for covid. It sucked. Plain and simple. I often trip over my words in these situations struggling to find ways to express that I am sorry, without sounding like I am sending my thoughts to a funeral home. That’s why I love gift-giving. I can’t possibly say anything else that I hadn’t already, but I could buy my friend the sour Scandinavian swimmers from Trader Joe's and get her a small bouquet of daisies to show that I was invested in her happiness. At other times it was writing my friends lengthy good-bye cards on national parks postcards with the park that resided in the state they were going to college in. Sometimes it was making bread. Once or twice it’s been concocting a playlist of all the songs I think of when I think of them. And quite a few times it was drawing something for someone.

Drawings I gave as gifts to friends & others

When I gift, I feel a sense of power. But no, not that sort of power. Not boastful, glorified, or controlling. It is simple, sweet, and overwhelmingly full of love. It’s the part where you look into the eyes of the person as they receive the gift and see a little more light come into them that was hidden just a minute before. It’s being able to create a moment and a memory encapsulated by the object just given. And it’s coming away from that experience feeling whole. 

I could wax poetic about this forever. But I’ll leave this whole thing as an overlong explanation wrapped up in a bow of words and sentences and sent off to you as a little gift from me to you.

@addie_cj

Photo courtesy of Tumblr