Revisit David Sedaris's essay, from 2006, about buying presents for his husband—and how some gifts linger in your memory, if not your closet.
For the past ten years or so, I’ve made it a habit to carry a small notebook in my front pocket. The model I favor is called the Europa, and I pull it out an average of ten times a day, jotting down grocery lists, observations, and little thoughts on how to make money, or torment people. The last page is always reserved for phone numbers, and the second to last I use for gift ideas.
He did not say “Stop before you reach the boulevard,” or “When you come to the Czech border you’ll know you’ve gone too far,” but he didn’t need to. I knew what he was talking about the moment I saw it. It was a human skeleton, the genuine article, hanging in the window of a medical bookstore. Hugh’s old drawing teacher used to have one, and though it had been ten years since he’d taken the woman’s class, I could suddenly recall him talking about it. “If I had a skeleton like Minerva’s . . .
Being told that I couldn’t buy a skeleton was just what I needed to make me really want one. Maybe that was the problem all along—it was too easy: “Take a right, take a left, and keep walking.” It took the hunt out of it.sell me their skeleton?” I asked, and the manager thought for a while. “Well,” she said, “I guess you could try looking on bulletin boards.”
I didn’t think of it as a former person until Christmas Day, when Hugh opened the cardboard coffin. “If you don’t like the color we can bleach it,” I said. “Either that or exchange it for the baby.” As the days pass, I keep hoping that the skeleton will become invisible, but he hasn’t. Dangling between the dresser and the bedroom door, he is the last thing I see before falling asleep, and the first thing I see in the morning.
One moment he’s an elderly Frenchwoman, the one I didn’t give my seat to on the bus. In my book, if you want to be treated like an old person, you have to look like one. That means no face-lift, no blond hair, and definitely no fishnet stockings. I think it’s a perfectly valid rule, but it wouldn’t have killed me to take her crutches into consideration.
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