Who says it's more blessed to give than to receive?

Today's post was first published December 16, 1999. Nothing has changed in the interim (except there aren't record stores anymore).

For most folks, the holiday season is a time of joy and giving.

For me, it's a time of abject terror.

That's because I hate to shop, and I don't need a shrink to tell me why.

It all goes back to my childhood.

My father owned a general store that sold thousands of items but, to conserve space, only one brand and style of each.

If you wanted a pair of jeans, there was one choice: Lee.

If you needed a pair of shoes, it was Endicott-Johnson or nothing.

My family wasn't allowed to buy anything anywhere else, unless Dryden's Store didn't sell it. And, since we sold most everything, shopping for us was easy.

Because I had no choices as a child, today, when I walk into a department store or -- worse yet -- a mall, I go into sensory overload.

If a store offered, say, one red sweater, no problem. I'd buy it. But when I'm confronted with dozens of choices -- cashmere, wool, cotton, cardigan, crew-neck, v-neck, cowl-neck, et al -- I'm so boggled I can't decide.

And so, nine times out of ten, I leave empty-handed.

Mercifully, my wife, who is an expert shopper, always takes care of buying the kids' Christmas presents and signs my name on the "to/from" cards. I look as forward to Christmas morning as they do, so I can see what video games we'll be playing over the coming year.

And buying for my mother is a snap. She loves biographies. One stop in the non-fiction section of the bookstore (or, better yet, at amazon.com) and she's taken care of.

So the only person I really have to shop for is my wife.

"Now Tom," I can hear you saying. "That shouldn't be too bad."

Au contraire. Sure, Christmas is nine whole days away. But her birthday is today. And our anniversary is December 27th. So I have to cram an entire year's worth of shopping into eleven days during the busiest time of year.

This year I thought I'd gotten off easy.

For the first time ever my wife told me exactly what she wants -- a one-of-a-kind bracelet we admired this summer in a St. Maarten jewelry store. After we left the store, I made up an excuse about leaving my sunglasses on the counter, went back, and had the sales clerk write down the exact description of the item. I told the clerk I'd call in November to order it.

Alas, last month St. Maarten was struck by Hurricane Lenny, the first November hurricane in more than 100 years.  I read that the beachfront street where the jewelry store was located was inundated by a storm surge. I've tried to rouse the store by both phone and e-mail ever since. I'm afraid that beautiful bracelet may be sleeping with the fishes at the bottom of the Caribbean Sea.

And so, this past Saturday, I found myself at the mall.

Within minutes after arriving, I noticed a store selling Brunswick pool tables.

OK, I know my wife doesn't want a pool table, but I do.

I spent a half-hour discussing the various makes, models, wood trim and felt cover options with the salesman, convincing myself I could talk my wife into letting me turn the dining room, which we never use anyway, into a pool room.

Realizing I had to be home in four hours, I told the salesman I'd be back ... and plunged into Macy's, where Lady Luck was with me.

Over the next two hours I purchased a beautiful cable-knit sweater, a blue blazer that's a perfect match for my wife's eyes, and an elegantly-tailored winter coat.

If I do say so myself, I look terrific in all of them. (Hey, we have parties to go to. I need to look my best.)

But I saw nothing I thought she might like.

Leaving Macy's feeling guilty, I wandered, as I do every year, into Brookstone where I spent a half-hour trying out the $3,999 vibrating massage chairs to relieve my holiday stress. I even filled out an entry for the chance to win one. I hope I do but I bet I won't.

I went into a record store to see if my wife's favorite group had released a new CD. Just as I walked in, the kid behind the counter, wearing three studs through his eyebrows, cranked up Celine Dion singing "O Holy Night" which sounded to me like fingernails being drawn across a chalkboard. I hightailed it out of there.

Running low on time I ducked into another department store where painted sweet-smelling women were competing with one another, trying to lure passing men to their cosmetic counters. "Come over here and I'll throw in a gift-wrapped sampler of our holiday lipsticks and matching nail enamels for just $19.99 with any fragrance purchase," one said, winking at me. I felt like a sailor in the red-light district of Amsterdam. And since my mama always told me to stay away from women who looked like that, I turned and fled.

I arrived home with a bagful of stuff for me, nothing for my wife, and with the knowledge that I will probably wind up, as I do every year, closing down the mall on December 24th.

At sundown Christmas Eve, while the rest of you are making precious memories with your loved ones, I'll still be at the damned mall, begging store managers not to turn out their lights and pull down their steel gates, and making irrational purchases like the "Funeral of Princess Diana" video I gave my wife two years ago.

I told her I thought it was romantic and historic and that it was something she would want to watch over and over.

She thanked me sweetly and took it back the day after Christmas, along with everything else I had bought at the last minute.

As she no doubt will again this year.