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He shrugs. “I don’t know, actually. Up to this point, to be frank, I hadn’t really planned to even send out an e-greeting. But it’s . . . a nice thing to do.”
He says “nice” like he’s testing out completely foreign waters with the tip of his toe before getting in.
I laugh. “Yes, James. It’s nice.”
His fingers drift over a few Christmas cards, and he seems to be deep in thought.
“You know, some people are so nice they send cards in whole stacks at a time,” I say. I hand him a pack of twenty-four cards. “Some people even make their own.”
I feel like I’m teaching a toddler right now.
Interesting.
He holds the pack of cards in his hands with a sense of fascination. Like this is a totally new concept he never even dared to consider before. He flips the packet over. Reads the back.
“It’s such a waste of time,” he says, yet it sounds more like an observational statement than a reason to forgo the action.
“I think that’s kind of the point,” I say. “It’s a way to tell people ‘I like you so much I’m willing to cramp my hand and throw away money and waste my time . . . for you.’”
When two twenty-four packs of cards enter the basket, I know I’ve just changed lives. I don’t even ask him what he thinks about our next stop. I just detour us down the toy aisle.
“So what are your nieces into?” I say as we stroll past a blur of pink.
James looks intently at the overwhelming number of dolls, strollers, and baby high chairs as if he’s never stopped by a toy aisle in his life. “I’m not sure,” he admits. He sounds embarrassed. “This is . . . only the second time I’ve seen them in person.”
“The second?” I say, brows spiking up. The oldest kid is six.
“We’ve FaceTimed plenty.” He pauses. “At least some,” he corrects.
He lets silence linger for a moment, then somewhat uncomfortably turns to one side. “I will say, they do have an entire bedroom dedicated to items of this color, though. And an oversupply of miniature food items.”
“So big doll fans. All right. Well . . . let’s take a look.”
He picks up the nearest box and scrutinizes it . . . but in a way that says something deeper is going on besides him reading the words Doctor Barbie, with real working stethoscope!
I cross my arms. Watch him as he takes a painstaking amount of time picking up two more boxes, actually reading the descriptive marketing words in tiny eight-point type as if he’s going over a very serious contract, then putting them down again to move on to the next.
“So, uh, pardon me if I’m digging too much here, but what’s your story, James?”
He looks up. “Story?”
“As in,” I continue, “you seem awfully dedicated to a cause here. Trying out a new . . . worldview, if you will.”
He looks back down at the doll. Then at me.
“I’m not very good at this.”
“What? Shopping?”
“Spending time committing to things outside of myself.”
Whoa. That was a serious confession for the Barbie aisle.
“I don’t . . . I haven’t . . .” he continues, searching for words, “made the best choices in the past.”
I exhale. Oh, how I can relate.
“The fact is, I was in a long-term relationship until fairly recently and . . .” He hesitates, his jaw tightening. “We both were more interested in using flyer miles to see bucket list destinations than spending vacation time on . . . family.”
