Present perfect

Actually, wrong. It’s a lovely notion, one with roots stretching back to the Roman Empire, where folks exchanged boughs to mark the winter solstice and sweets to represent happiness and lamps to provide light on a loved one’s journey through life. But somewhere along the way meaningful gesture came to involve aftershave. I’m guessing there is a cupboard in my father’s apartment lined with dusty bottles of Old Spice dating to my childhood. And while it’s tempting to retroactively spin my annual offering as a riff on frankincense and myrrh, I wasn’t that clever and we don’t celebrate Christmas. Moreover, my tokens of affection haven’t evolved much over time.

Here’s the thing about my dad: He values the world of the mind over material pleasures. For him, conversation is more thrilling than consumption. No matter what I’ve given him over the years, I never imagine that my father will really, truly relish it, which on the one hand makes him a genuinely impressive human being and on the other impossible to shop for. I suppose a certain Sinead O’Connor album would make a suitable gift for a guy who does not want what he hasn’t got, but Sinatra is more his speed. Plus, he doesn’t have a stereo.

Besides relegating him to a freakishly small minority among his species, my dad’s indifference to stuff underscores many psychologists’ view that it is the giver, not the recipient, who reaps the greatest reward from a gift. To which I say: Come on down and meet the whole family.

One of my sisters is a serial procrastinator, and she has a theory that when it comes to choosing a present, the longer you wait the more you spend. Statistically speaking (my sister, an epidemiologist, has no doubt run the numbers), the odds of bolting into a really nice store on the way to a celebration and finding a good present are better than bolting into Target on the way to a celebration and finding a good present. Needless to say, she’s personally tested her hypothesis on numerous occasions, and as someone who has gone in on more than a few gifts that my beloved sibling has been charged with procuring (A cashmere blanket? Really?), I can vouch for this simple equation: Desperation breeds wanton generosity.

My other sister is preternaturally invested in finding perfect gifts, gifts that dazzle with their symbolism or humor or ingenuity, gifts that will - dare I say - reflect her own dazzling personality. She is rightly regarded as the most creative member of our brood, a fraught honor that requires unholy maintenance and untold hours scouring websites and flea markets. Inspired by her example, I spent several consecutive years buying this sister shoes as gifts, mainly because shoes are such a ridiculous thing to buy for someone else. Especially when you don’t wear the same size. It never failed to freak everyone out, which is one way of getting attention.

But it was my husband - he falls into the I-give-you-the-gift-of-my-love-every-day camp of spotty givers - who stole my sister’s thunder several years ago when he outbid her in an eBay auction of Mexican milagros and presented her with the collection at her birthday party.

It was surreal, a banner moment for a family that chases joy with shots of eccentricity, exasperation, and occasional bewilderment. What would the behavioral experts make of my dad’s penchant for bestowing dolls and music boxes on his grown daughters? That’s easy. They’d make him the poster boy for gratified gift-givers everywhere. We are still his little girls, and he’s bought the present to prove it.

Joan Anderman can be reached at anderman@globe.com.