How a Gift Can Tame You

How this pair of slippers helped me stop behaving like a barbarian.

When I was younger, I was a man for bedlam, and I dedicated the better part of my time to heavy drinking, discord, and the freewheeling manufacture of havoc. I was fired from my first two jobs out of college, and would have been fired from a part-time bookstore gig and a mindless temp position had I not quit preemptively. I lived in a series of apartments that were so cold you could sometimes see your breath in the mornings. In one, I had a roommate who would jam switchblades into our doorframes. Once, I came home and he was trying to smash open a coconut with a hammer. I suggested a better way, and before long, part of the linoleum floor was on fire. To this day, I remain the only person I know who has been chased on foot for half a mile by an irate cab driver and been attacked by a man in an M&M costume.

I say this as necessary background to the story of my slippers. They were a Christmas gift from my then-girlfriend, who looked upon my antics with a mix of intrigue and speechlessness, and occasionally stepped in to try to minimize the physical discomfort said antics caused me. In sharp contrast to my lifestyle, the slippers were muted, dignified, comfortable. They looked as if they should come with a matching pipe. I took to them right away and wore them constantly. They protected my feet from not only cold, but also, for instance, the dozen mouse traps I spent two weeks accidentally stepping on after my icy apartment suddenly became infested.

In the years that followed, there were more gifts of the slippers' ilk. A monogrammed bathrobe, flannel pajamas from Brooks Brothers, a scarf, a hot water bottle, a shaving brush, nice gloves. I took to all of them, too, and in time they became emblems of a creeping, though unexpectedly welcome, civility. Or at least a fairly accurate facsimile thereof. (I do lapse.)

We were married in 2006. When my wife tells the story of those early years, she refers to me affectionately as "wolf boy."

"Poor wolf boy," she says.

The pajamas, scarf and gloves all wore out, and have been long since replaced. The slippers remain. They're a little ragged now, matted in the way old suede gets matted, worn out in the soles, but I still wear them every day and I still remember.

It's a dangerous business, giving gifts that aim to improve a person. They can come across as judgmental, hostile, discontented. They can feel like an ultimatum. But handled well, with the requisite thought, sensitivity, and even foresight, they can show you, the recipient, something. They can show you the way. They can show you the man you'll be.


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