I’ve always prided myself on being a good gift giver, considering the act an art as creative as the writing I do for a living. Matching a person to the perfect present feels just as triumphant as any big byline. Giving is my love language, one I’m proud to be fluent in.
This makes holidays with my hard-to-shop-for boyfriend of 14 years, Drew, a challenge. Twice a year, on his birthday and at Christmastime, I’m faced with a dilemma that doesn’t plague me with friends and family. Since he’s a minimalist who spends spare weekends looking for things to throw away, I never want to give him something random that will collect dust until it makes its way to the dumpster.
Food has been a go-to, because he won’t object to an item that, by definition, has an expiration date. I know his taste well enough to take chances on things like tinned fish imported from Spain or babka ice cream sandwiches via Goldbelly, neither of which lasted long. Candles are also in heavy present rotation because he lights them almost daily. I’ve gotten to know the scents he enjoys (baked bread is a favorite), and the ones he finds cloying. But my most expensive gift-giving lesson as a girlfriend came in the wake of tragedy.
In January 2021, with Drew’s birthday looming, I wanted to go all out. It wasn’t a milestone birthday for him, but I was recovering emotionally from a miscarriage at age 45 that required a six-hour emergency room stay, which I had to weather solo due to restrictions related to the COVID-19 pandemic. I hadn’t known I was pregnant, even though I’d been trying to conceive for several years, and had stood up at my desk only to find warm blood gushing down my leg.
In the aftermath, with both of us trying to process our emotions, I felt the urgent need to give him a truly special gift, the kind that only I, as the person he’s (hopefully) closest to, would think of. I didn’t consciously think, This will cheer me up, but in the back of my mind, I hoped that bringing joy into our household would help override my sadness, washing it away with something uplifting. I may not have been able to carry a pregnancy, but I could place a permanent reminder of my love for him in our home.
When I came across a $2,000 limited-edition photo print of Bruce Springsteen and Clarence Clemons onstage in 1978, with The Boss leaning on his talented saxophonist’s shoulder, shot by renowned rock photographer Lynn Goldsmith, it stood out to me, as if beckoning me among the images of Springsteen from various decades. I felt called to buy it for Drew—a diehard fan who’s seen Springsteen in concert multiple times—even though that price tag was 20 times what I’d normally spend on a gift.
I asked a few friends who were Springsteen fans what they thought, since I knew I hadn’t been in my normal frame of mind since the pregnancy loss. One emailed me back that it “really captures the intimacy of their relationship and the way they interacted on stage.” She was sure he’d love it. So was I.
I did due diligence by asking the gallery about the possibility of selling it back to them if it wasn’t the home run I expected it to be. They said that once the 20-print limited run of the photo sold out, they would potentially be open to buying it back, so I might be able to recoup some of my costs.
That was enough to seal the deal for me. I arranged for the print to arrive unframed, since Drew’s an artist who’s very particular about frames, on his birthday. I was giddy, pushing aside my heartache and focusing on the impending arrival of the new artwork I anticipated hanging proudly from his bedroom wall (we have separate bedrooms). I didn’t realize how much was at stake for me, emotionally, until the huge box arrived during an afternoon of hectic meetings for him.
“What’d you get me?” he asked in the same slightly exasperated tone he uses when I leave puddles of water next to the sink after washing the dishes.
“Open it,” I said.
He did, while my heart pounded in anticipation. As he slid the print from its careful packaging, I could tell immediately that he wasn’t about to reveal that I was the world’s best gift giver who’d somehow snuck into his subconscious and produced the ultimate offering anyone had ever bestowed on him.
“You don’t like it, do you?” I asked.
“I do, but you should ask me before spending so much,” he said, sounding somewhere between dispassionate and disappointed, as if the “I do” was merely perfunctory, and the gift I’d invested so much emotional energy into was something he’d have to deal with, versus an item he’d treasure.
I was nearly in tears as we went about the rest of our day. Later that night, he told me it was a good photo, just not his current preferred style. He’d recently taken down several rock photos from our living room walls and replaced them with art prints. Since he hadn’t announced the change, I assumed he was open to both kinds of decor.
I let the subject go, knowing I had to make peace with my failed mission on my own. He eventually got it framed, but it remained in his closet for a few years. I didn’t ask if it would ever reappear and adjusted my future purchases to solely safe bets. If I spied a bracelet I thought he might like, I checked with him first.
Then one day in 2024, I came home from a trip to find the black-and-white image dominating his wall, visible from his bed, unmissable. He didn’t say what had made him change his mind. Drew’s most prominent personality trait, in my view, is always staying true to his convictions. He wasn’t going to hang it out of obligation or to make me happy, nor should he. It’s his room, decorated to his standards.
We didn’t discuss it, but seeing it there gave me back a little bit of pride in knowing that this gift that had been part selfish, part selfless, had done its job, had touched him enough to display it where he’d see it on a daily basis. Far more meaningful than his initial thanks, though, are the times when, from another room, I’ve overheard him telling our toddler daughter, “That’s Bruce Springsteen, one of the greatest singers ever, and that’s Clarence Clemons, his saxophone player.” Other times he’ll ask her, “Where’s Clarence?” and my heart melts when the next thing he says is, “That’s right.”
Giving the right gift to someone you love can feel like taking a romantic SAT test, where you’re scored based not on what you intended them to feel, but their actual response. We’re taught “it’s the thought that counts,” and while I believe there’s a kernel of truth to that, anyone who’s received a subpar gift knows that’s not the whole truth. Thoughtfulness is appreciated, but someone truly getting you, and proving that via a present, counts even more.
This year, a few weeks after our joint attempts to be lucky Ticketmaster purchasers of tickets to Springsteen’s Land of Hope and Dreams tour were dashed when they sold out quickly, I considered surprising him with resale tickets to the Philly show. While the prices for two tickets would’ve been over $1,000 (roughly half what I spent on the print), I reasoned it would be worth it, especially if this winds up being one of Springsteen’s last big tours. Maybe we’d even bring our daughter, who we croon “Jersey Girl” and “Atlantic City” to, as part of her musical education.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I’d be overstepping my role as a girlfriend and gift-giver if I got him the exorbitantly priced tickets. I’d merely have been repeating my earlier folly, assuming he’d be thrilled when he’d likely admonish me for spending too much. So I stopped refreshing the resale options and simply put on a Springsteen album; I’ve learned my lesson. If he wants to go to the show that badly, he can get his own tickets. Figuring out the difference between an extravagant expenditure to show my love and simply showing it in my everyday actions has been a gift I’ve had to give myself.
Rachel Kramer Bussel is the founder and editor-in-chief of personal essay magazine Open Secrets. Her writing has been published in The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, The Village Voice and elsewhere.
All views expressed in this article are the author’s own.
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