Christmas comes and goes without a present from my husband Larry, who swears that it’s been ordered. I’m unconcerned as he’s yet to grasp the concept of time – his mother still hasn’t forgiven him for arriving two weeks past his due date.
I also figure the gift will be the usual – another needless kitchen gadget.
My thumb’s still throbbing after last year’s assault by a brand-new electric potato peeler.
Groundhog Day has come and gone when a brown padded envelope arrives with the return address hand-written entirely in Chinese.
The envelope looks like it was driven over by a truck and then trampled by a family of stampeding elephants.
“It’s here, Merry Christmas,” Larry says,
I stare at the alarming-looking package.
Larry claims it’s been ordered through a legitimate shopping site so I approach it cautiously with a pair of scissors. Inside is a teeny-tiny piece of transparent purple nylon fabric – Barney the Dinosaur purple.
“Um, what’s it supposed to be?” I ask, thinking it’s a bit too small for a handkerchief.
“A baby-doll nightie,” he says, “obviously.”
It takes me as long to figure out which side of this wisp of material is the top as it takes a toddler to complete a Rubik’s cube. There are two purple lace circles the size of quarters and on either side a thin strap – barely the width of a hair, let alone spaghetti. Below are a dozen thin panels that hang down like vertical blinds.
“Try it on,” Larry says. He seems pleased with himself.
I hold the nightie up to me – the length barely reaches my belly button.
I doubt if it’s big enough to fit an actual baby doll.
While Larry has many positive attributes, he’s not always a stickler for detail. I make a mental note to buy him a tape measure.
In an attempt to appease him, I put the nightie over my head. It’s barely elbow deep when all movement ceases. I struggle to stretch the straps as far as possible. It feels like wrestling an angry boa constrictor and I stare helplessly at Larry through the purple haze, unable to move my arms which are stuck above my head.
“Huh, you’re right,” Larry finally concedes. “It doesn’t fit.”
I point my one functional finger towards the scissors and he cuts me free.
The Ironman triathlon must be less strenuous than what I’ve just been put through.
As my breathing normalizes and I glare at the pile of purple shredded nylon, Larry pats me on the back and whispers:
“Don’t ever say I never get you anything sexy.”
I just sigh.
I’m hoping next year for a lemon zester. | 
