The 6 Stages Of Opening A Disappointing Christmas Present

Opening presents isn’t always a pleasurable experience. In fact, sometimes it can be downright terrifying. Especially if you’re blindsided by the the disappointing gift. Here are the six stages everyone goes through when they realize they have been given the worst gift on earth and they have to pretend it’s the exact opposite of that.

Anticipation (1) rushes through me. Be it veiled in neatly creased wrapping paper, a crumpled comics section, or even just a bloodstained rag, I am always delighted to have a present to open. This current one, sheathed in crisp colored paper and adorned with a giant bow, has a weight to it that feels expensive. It’s not overly hefty, the way something boring like reams of paper or a monogrammed family urn would be. This resistance feels more awesome, likely in the video-game-system or large-weapon neighborhood.

The wrapping paper and bow are quickly mangled off and reduced to garbage. Ferocious, I savor nothing. The paper is gone; the naked box now sits before me, the lackluster labels of unexciting brands depressing me. I know this has to be misdirection. I’m in complete denial (2). My uncle probably just ran out of interesting boxes.

It must be a ruse; it has to be—sensible, sane people don’t give gifts from the McGraw Hill Outlet.

The box open, I’m rooting through tissue paper. Everyone, giddy, fixates on me as irrational hope (3) fills my heart. Like with anything in life, I should learn to keep expectations low and avoid disappointment. People, careers, presents, I need to learn to expect the worst and live a beautifully calloused, un-hurt life. Today, though, my imagination runs wild, like a spastic child off his leash. I’m visualizing the best underneath this thin paper, a brick of beef jerky, a pristine N64, maybe a formal sword cane.

Momentarily my face drops as I realize what was so heavy. It’s a souvenir paperweight from the National Paperweight Museum, a true tribute to how shamelessly my uncle wastes his personal days. I force a smile while my hands, busy and greedy (4), rummage through the rest of the box, hoping to find cash or a check, but they turn up nothing except more frustration.

Any prolonged pause occurring directly after opening a gift is invariably followed up with a loaded “well?” or “so?” Of course today is no exception. I don’t miss a beat. Coerced thankfulness (5) spouts from me. My voice raises several octaves and I gush disingenuous adjectives. “It’s really interesting; it’s definitely not terrible!”

My uncle, though, isn’t convinced. I suppose my enthusiasm was pretty contrived, like Grammy-acceptance-speech contrived. I keep laying on the compliments, trying to reassure him that his dumb present isn’t just going to stay wrapped in its cellophane in my closet for two years before I inevitably throw it away.

The seemingly deranged series of questions about my plans for the paperweight finally ends. Now I begin brainstorming. In my life I do not have papers erratically sailing around my desk, begging to be weighted down. I’m faced with a crossroads for my unneeded paperweight. Do I throw it away now? Do I donate it to charity for the tax write-off? Is re-gifting on the table? Do I return it and have eight-ish dollars of store credit at the National Paperweight Museum Gift Shop? I’ll continue pondering (6); for now, my options are as awful as the present.