The Love Language of Things (And the Meaning We Try to Make of Them)
I stood in the mail room overwhelmed. My eyes scanned every shelf—overflowing, some packages even spilling onto the ground. ’Tis the season, I suppose. Per the notification on the Luxer app, I should be seeing three packages that belong to me. So, like looking for a needle in a haystack stitched entirely out of cardboard, I began to sift.
Marx would be so ashamed.
How much frivolous bullshit is in here? I wondered.
My own packages didn’t exactly strengthen my moral high ground: a holiday doormat, seasonal kitchen towels, and a tea kettle (I do love a proper cup of tea). Knowing what’s inside does technically diminish the dopamine surge, but only a little.
A Love Languages quiz recently informed me—once again—that gifts are my primary love language. I love giving them, wrapping them, watching people open something I selected just for them. There’s a rush of positive emotion every single time.
And yes, I love receiving gifts too… but not the kind of gifts that turn into clutter. Lord knows I don’t need more stuff. In fact, I’m currently attempting a preemptive spring cleaning of my entire life. I despise clutter. Everything has its place. My closet is color-coordinated, and the number of unworn items with tags still attached is borderline offensive.
So lately I’ve been asking myself, before clicking purchase:
Do I need it? Do I love it? Does it spark joy?
It’s astonishing how much those three questions reveal.
I also love cards—deeply, irrationally, nostalgically. I keep every single one anyone has ever given me, tucked into a decorative little box in my closet. It’s very “literary heroine preserving her life in prose.”
The truth is: I can’t remember the last time I was surprised by something in my mailbox. Gift-giving has become predictable. People ask, “What do you want?” and while that’s practical, it’s also a little disappointing.
Take this year, for instance. My friends gifted me a portrait of Audrey Hepburn from Breakfast at Tiffany’s for my birthday. It’s beautiful. I love it. And I asked for it. I knew it was coming. There’s nothing wrong with that… but it’s not the same as someone stumbling upon something and thinking of you.
That’s the real magic.
When someone says, “This reminded me of you.”
It’s the same feeling as when someone shares music they think you’ll love. That’s its own love language. A subtle intimacy. A tiny piece of someone’s inner world placed into your hands.
Because gifts without emotion are just things.
But the ones that come with intention—those are artifacts.
Breadcrumbs of connection.
Proof that someone sees you, even in the small ways.
This holiday season, may we be intentional—sprinkling all the inevitable consumerism with a depth of feeling that’s become far too rare.
–LC
Vibe with Me LC 