You’re avoiding me on purpose; I know I’m the first thing you see when you turn toward the gift pile. I’m about five times larger than the next-largest package or bag, covered in floral wrapping paper going in two different directions because no retailer, not even the goddamn Pottery Barn, offers gift wrapping for toddler-sized blocks of acacia.
I don’t know why I made that Pottery Barn reference. Ashlynn didn’t buy me from the Pottery Barn, or any of your registries. I’m not even new, really.
For the last seven months, my home has been among piles of neatly folded yoga pants and pre-regifting wedding gifts in Ashlynn’s walk-in closet. You were at her bridal shower, too, which is the only reason you invited her here today. And although she’s only ninety-five percent sure you didn’t buy me for her bridal shower, I know exactly where I came from: Home Goods, as Gerri’s gift for Olivia’s 2018 housewarming party, then Olivia’s gift for Bella’s 2018 Christmas party, then Bella’s gift for Piper’s 2019 baby shower (I agree, weird play), then Piper’s gift for Ashlynn’s 2020 bridal shower, and, finally, here and now, in your older sister’s living room, surrounded by your bridesmaids, relatives, and morally bankrupt acquaintances like Ashlynn.
So yeah, I know you’re delaying the inevitable: the moment you have to pretend to be as delighted by me as by the three cheese boards you’ve already opened. Not that it matters to you or any of my prior owners, but my material is hard, nonporous, and durable – ideal for displaying your overpriced Lunchables without smelling like them afterwards. But I only know all this from reading the box of the other acacia cheese board in Ashlynn’s closet. It’s not like anyone has ever asked me to help entertain guests at a real party. Who am I but a prop for fake generosity, a shield against whispers of cheapness, doomed to circulate among acquaintances?
Anyway, congratulations on your almost-marriage. Judging from your sister’s living room, I’m guessing every member of your family lives in blindingly white Fixer Upper fan fiction and I look forward to being entombed in shiplap under a farmhouse sink behind a barn door until Allyson’s shower in May. And I saw how you looked at my teak and black walnut colleagues; either one would be an acceptable permanent entertaining centerpiece.
Just please, for the love of Gouda (sorry, but also, allow me this single chuckle before I return to dark isolation), make sure that circular bamboo fucker also ends up in your regift pile. Placing charcuterie on a glorified bundle of grass is where I draw the line.