The Painfully Obvious Elf

How many of you have husbands who actually ask specific questions about the women's clothing in your favorite store?

Fancy that -- I don't see too many hands waving. My guess is that your husband, like mine, doesn't care one fiddle about the gorgeous dress you've fallen in love with, or the Super Sweater Sale that only comes once a year, or the fabulous pair of shoes that just so happens to match your favorite purse.

Unless, of course, Christmas is coming.

Eric is generous, romantic, and wonderful during the holiday season. But he is also about as subtle as a drunk rhinercerous in an antique shop.

In other words, I can see right through him.

I could tell that December was approaching when, shortly after Thanskgiving, Eric engaged me in a strange conversation about a particular sweater of mine. The sweater, which just so happened to be a gift from my beloved last Christmas, was hanging over the side of my utility sink (which is where everything on my waiting-to-have-a-stubborn-spot-removed list ends up). After questioning me about why the sweater was hanging there (which was weird enough in itself), Eric proceeded to say, "So, you wear a size 'small' in this, then."

Now, Eric isn't in the habit of comparing clothing labels, and he doesn't have a particularly keen interest in my sweater size (or shoe size, or bra size, or any other size you can think of). So it was immediately apparent that Eric was either a) contemplating the purchase of a sweater; or b) double-checking that he had chosen the right size on a recently purchased sweater.

And here's the kicker -- he has absolutely no concept of how completely obvious he's been.

Naturally, I took full advantage of the situation by explaining that I actually wear an extra-small in some of my favorite stores (like the Gap), although a small would do at times, so long as it didn't hang on me like an over-sized drape. (It's these undersized breasts, you see -- an extra-small actually allows me to fill out the shirt instead of looking like a twelve-year-old.) I hope he was listening.

Shortly after the sweater encounter, I spent a few hours doing some peacefully solo Christmas shopping. None of the purchases were for me, of course, but I couldn't help noticing a few things that really caught my eye -- namely, some awfully cute jammies at Eddie Bauer, and even cuter ones at The Gap. Either pair would've made the perfect don't-I-look-cute-on-Christmas-morning, cocoa-making jammies. So I proceeded to tell Eric all about them.

His normal reaction to my exhuberant descriptions of unpurchased items of clothing is a general glazing-over of the eyes and a quick change of subject. This time, though, he asked more questions about women's jammies than could be considered "normal" for any typical male. I could almost see him adding the data to his brain while I was talking: "Note to self: Check out the jammies at Eddie Bauer -- tops and bottoms priced separately -- and The Gap -- pink and green Christmas trees on the bottoms."

Of course, I have to pretend that I don't notice these things while they are happening. That would, after all, spoil Eric's fun.

Not that he always ends up buying the things he so obviously questions me about. In fact, he often doesn't. But I wouldn't want to spoil his fun, anyway.

The worst case of Obvious Elf happened several Christmases ago, when, out of the blue, Eric began to ask me some specific questions about my preferences in diamond rings. He knew I hated my engagement ring (let's face it -- he couldn't afford much back then), and he knew I dreamed of having a nice, new diamond solitaire some day. What he didn't seem to know was the fact that his sudden questions-about-diamonds stuck out like a pimple on Miss America's nose. It was very hard for me to put out of my mind the possibility that he was actually diamond-shopping that Christmas.

As it turned out, he was. Fortunately, he managed to fool me after all, by NOT putting the ring in my stocking with the other gifts. Instead, he pretended to have forgotten one of my gifts upstairs, and he brought down a wrapped gift that was way too big to have a ring inside it. Of course, the end of the story is obvious: it most certainly did have a ring inside it (and a pair of shoes, but those weren't new -- those were in there to make the box heavier). And even after all of the painfully blatant hints, I still cried when I saw it.

Isn't he cute, though?

Still, part of me gets angry. I don't want to figure things out. I don't want hints, and I don't like ruined surprises. I often wish he would just go about his business without feeding my suspicions every time we have a conversation. (Doesn't he realize that comments like, "So, did you say you saw this on Ebay?" are a dead give-away?)

His lack of subtlety is so subtle, though. I mean -- it isn't just the comments and questions; it's the fact that he is actually paying attention to details that would normally fly right by. He's not exactly the Intimate Conversation King, so when he starts spouting off active-listening things like, "Really?" or "Hmmm!" or "And where did you see that?" or "So, you like the cornflower blue?", I know that we have entered the realm of "Christmas-is-coming-so-I've-installed-my-temporary-radar."

It's frustrating and endearing at the same time.

I shouldn't complain. Some husbands are completely clueless, and wouldn't even think to gather data like this. I once read about a husband who thought he'd be "cute" and fill his wife's Christmas stocking with all sorts of cleaning products (she was not amused). In fact, I should be downright faithful that we've come as far as we have since our first Christmas together as "boyfriend and girlfriend."

Eric worked at a dowdy department store back then, and he was apparently rather excited about the fact that he could use his employee discount on the sale racks in the clothing department. So I ended up receiving a tan, cordoruy blazer (I didn't wear blazers), a gawd-awful sweater, and a Shaker-style sweater vest, which was the only item I actually wore (they were in style way back then). That is a thirty-three percent success rate (my Mom and I went off on the blazer for literally years). He's come a long way, baby.

I won't even mention the black velveteen blazer he offered me in January (Eric obviously didn't notice that I still wasn't wearing blazers). "Zona has one just like this," Eric said as he presented me with the ugliest garment I had ever seen in my life, "and I think she looks nice in it." No matter that Zona was a fashion-challenged saleswoman whose sense of style was the last thing I wanted to emulate. Was I ever thankful that the blazer's sleeves were about three inches too short.

Insert regretful, apologetic voice: "Oh, I'm so sorry, sweetie -- but I can't wear petite sizes!"

Yes, indeed, when I look back and remember what I used to unwrap, I realize that dealing with an Obvious Elf is a far, far better burden to carry. At least I can emphatically tell him what I DON'T like without hurting his feelings.

Of course, I know what's going to happen. He's going to read this article, examine his behavior, and make a wholehearted attempt to change his tactics. He hates when I have him figured out, and, let's face it -- I have him figured out!

He won't be able to do it, though. Once an Obvious Elf, always an Obvious Elf. And I'll take him just the way he is. For as ooey-gooey as it may sound, he is absolutely the best Christmas present under the tree. I wouldn't want him any other way.