I had to return a Christmas present this year. Not one of my own, but one I had purchased for someone else. I not only had to return it, but (GASP) ask for a complete refund. I almost had a panic attack about this. There was no way around it.
It was gorgeous, deep dark purple with rows of mini black buttons, and a royal red and black gradation on the cuffs and collar. Silky, smooth, sexy looking, I was absolutely certain it would be an instant favourite, ready for a date night or a dressup dinner.
I was partially right. Which means I was partially wrong as well. It didn’t fit. It didn’t even come close. I sadly lack the expertise to accurately measure, especially in garments I am unfamiliar with.
And as the evening wore on, and the recipient gracefully responded with “It’s great! I love it”, I also heard the disappointment in his voice when asked about an item he would have preferred.
So I grudgingly packed it back up, placed the carefully tissue-wrapped shirt back in the box, a real box, not a flimsy half-paper half-cardboard contraption from some franchise. This was tissue wrapped with a seal, with a thoughtful decal placed over the price on the tag, carefully folded and lovingly wrapped in Christmas wrap. It was so … good.
And I mustered up the strength to ask for a refund, not an in store credit, not an exchange for size. An actual honest to goodness refund. I felt a slight twinge of nausea. The look from the representative at the desk was one of those looks. Kind of indescribable, unless you call it a sticky mess of confusion, a gob of curiousity and tacky chagrin.
I felt compelled to explain in depth. It doesn’t fit, and he would like something else. I said it, I admitted. I maybe had a slight faint at the words.
But it’s done, and he can go pick out the right present. Sigh. It makes me wonder how many people would rather keep something that they’ll not be able to use, rather than face the “Return” desk.