My Husband Bought Me Bedsheets for Christmas. And I Let Him Live.

Every major gift-giving holiday, it’s the same thing.

HIM: What do you want for your birthday/anniversary/Christmas/Groundhog’s Day present?

ME: I dunno. I need a new office chair.

HIM: That’s not a present.

ME: But it’s what I want.

HIM: And you can have one. But you need a present.

ME: I need a new cell phone.

HIM: What’s wrong with your cell phone?

ME: It doesn’t play the whole ring tone ever since it fell in a beer.

HIM: Why did it fall in…never mind. Go get a cell phone. That’s not a gift either.

ME: The new version of Microsoft Word?

HIM: That’s. Not. A. Gift.

ME: Well, what’s a gift? Isn’t it just something I want that I don’t have to go buy for myself?

HIM: No. It’s something cool and neat and that doesn’t replace something you own that you broke.

ME: Well, there goes you getting plastic surgery on your nose for Christmas.

HIM: (exasperated sigh, followed by The Look)

ME: Isn’t part of it being a gift also the fact that someone else thought of you and picked it out for you, based solely on how well they know and love you?

HIM: Good luck with that. There is no one alive who can figure you out that well.

ME: That’s part of my charm.

HIM: Never mind, I’ll just go walk around the mall until I see something that won’t get me killed.

Unfortunately, he saw bedsheets. Again. This marks the third major holiday that he’s bought me bedsheets as a gift. Here’s the problem with bedsheets: they’re AWESOME. He always buys these super-expensive luxury sheets with, like, 900,000 thread count, and then he complains about how it’s not a good gift. He goes so far as to say things like, “Stand over here in the light so I can see the look of crushing disappointment on your face when you open it.”

I, for one, think they’re great. They are the only gift that I will use every single day, without fail. Unless I pass out somewhere, in which case I’ve probably had so much to drink that I’ll still use the sheets when I’m in bed recovering from the hangover. The problem is he will comment on what a stupid present they were EVERY TIME HE SEES THEM, which will also be every single day. I bet he wouldn’t feel that way if he’d bought me an office chair.