Secret Santa stress

I quickly but quietly unwrapped my present: a wooden box with lavender-scented potpourri and some purple nail polish. At the time, sitting in a circle of 30 eighth graders who all had their eyes on me, I blushed so hard my eyes started watering and my sweater caught on fire (or at least felt that way, as I was suddenly burning up in that room, right there with the picture of poets or saints or something looking down on me).

After my mini embarrassment, I had to give my present to the person whose name I'd drawn. It was one of the girls, I think; Stephanie or Katie or someone else whose interests I had to be aware of for a few days, long enough to get them my Secret Santa gift.

Just like I expected as a 13-year-old, this was the most important moment of my life and it's shaped the way I've lived from this point on. That's why I can remember in such vague detail the way I'd wrapped the gift of ... Um ... Well. I'm certain I was right about it being the most important, never-ending moment of my life.

And now, more than a decade later, I again signed up to be in a Secret Santa exchange. Yes, I willingly, with no coaxing at all, put "Erin Wasinger" right there on a line and drew a name out of a hat a few days later.

At the time, I was thinking about last year's event, and how it was nice and fun, and how at least I know these people at work, unlike in junior high.

Which is why I'm stressing a bit, of course, that I have to get my Secret Santa gift this weekend. I tried gifts.com. I tried staring into space. I tried remembering every insignificant detail I'd ever overheard. I'm sure it'll be fine. Just ask Stephanie. Or Katie. Or whoever it was. I'm fairly confident I didn't ruin their Christmases, and subsequently their lives. Fairly confident.