Wrestling the Alligator

It's the small moments, the ones others don't see. The moments that don't so much remind me why I'm in love with her as make me fall in love with her all over again.

I've decided to present her wedding gifts at dinner tonight to give her a lift from the stress she's been feeling. It will be just us, the last time we'll be alone before the wedding night. Now only one major issue remains.

I've three separate gifts. One, a fancy corkscrew I vetoed from the registry. Two, a self-burned CD of mushy love songs (including me crooning to a few Air Supply tracks. What the hell possessed me to do that?) Three, a quintet of items from MAC, two of which I can name, the other three of which the girl at the store convinced me Stephanie absolutely had to have.

Now, the moment of reckoning. I look in the mirror and confront a deep anxiety many men harbor but few discuss. I know the only way I'm going to conquer this problem is to face it, but knowing it and doing it are different things.

It's not as though I'm an incapable person. I can hit a curveball; install a dimmer; fly a plane. Okay, I can't fly a plane, but I can do those other things. Yet for me wrapping a gift remains about as easy as wrestling an alligator. If I screw up everything else regarding this wedding, there are two things I want to achieve: a) get the perfect shave two mornings from now, and b) wrap her gifts in a half-respectable manner.

It isn't only gifts. I can't wrap anything. If I worked at MegaWraps they'd go out of business in a week. If I were God, everyone's skin would hang in random folds.

This time will be different. No more excuses. It isn't hereditary. I am not missing a group of neurons. Last time I checked, my thumbs were still opposable.

Addressing the corkscrew first, I plunge in. Five minutes later, I'm astounded by my own ineptitude. Just started and already I'm in troubleshooting mode.

I attempt to fold the ends into something resembling triangles. I accomplish this, at least in a universe where triangles have five sides. How many other men are experiencing the same thing at this moment? Are there support groups?

I try to stay focused, imagining Steph's smile for inspiration. I want to avoid the common mistakes: using too much tape, folding the paper onto itself seven times, or my specialty, leaving a strip of exposed box where the edges should overlap. Ah, I've managed it again this time. I tug the paper together, hoping it will magically expand. Why didn't I take advantage of those people wrapping gifts at the mall for a dollar?

Fortunately, I've been in this situation before, so I know how to fix it. I hurry to the store and buy a giant card that covers the entire box. Exposed strip no longer exposed. Problem solved. One gift down, two to go. An hour until dinner.

As I start out of the store I spot a small gift bag that could be used for gift number two. I don't want to cop out, but the gift bag is irresistibly trouble-free. All I'd have to do is plop the CD into the bottom, then cram in a bunch of tissue paper. (When Steph does this the tissue paper somehow looks like tulips. My tissue paper looks like lava spewing from a volcano. If only I could find a volcano-themed gift.) Other men are eyeing the gift bags as well. I feel like I'm in Victoria's Secret waiting for someone else to take a bra off the rack. I buy the bag and tissue paper. Two down, one to go.

The MAC quintet makes me nervous because of its multiple components. I could wrap an aircraft carrier more easily than these little boxes. I seem to recall the girl at the counter recommending some technique or other, but I must have been thinking about the Raptor game at the time. Dumb Raptors. How hard is it to hit a three at the buzzer?

I place the cosmetic quintet on a few squares of wrapping paper and stare at them awhile. I'm in over my head here. I check my watch. Forty minutes to dinner. No choice but to dive in. I wrap each item haphazardly, then all five together. Once finished, I find I've created a shape no one has ever seen. At least she won't be able to guess what it is.

I arrive at dinner and am immediately reminded of how similarly Steph and I think. She has three gifts for me as well, laid out on the table as though wrapped by a team of senior elves: ends folded into perfect equilateral triangles, precise lengths of tape pressed down to transparency, card attached at just the right jaunty angle.

Laying my gifts out across from hers, I prepare to explain my mysterious loss of coordination or the reason why I asked the local kindergarten class to help me wrap them.

But I don't get the chance. Before I can get a word out, Steph gives me a kiss and tells me she adores me. Where this is coming from I have no idea. Her eyes are misty. She hugs me once, twice. Tells me again I'm adorable. I haven't a clue what's going on.

Then, as we break from the hug, her sweet smile reminds me what I regularly forget.

She doesn't care what the presents look like. She doesn't even really care what's inside.

She only cares that I try. I can't wait to be married to this woman.

Today's Bride 

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I.J. Schecter
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© I.J. Schecter 2003