I don’t remember what happened in third grade. T.S. comes to mind, though I can’t be sure. She was a Queen Bee. Not a cruel one, just a regular kid, and I was friends with her, I went to her for Shabbos. But I was still on the outskirts of her circle, and I didn’t know if I was good enough. Did she give me shalach manos? Did I give her? All I recall is that feeling of “I didn’t get enough, therefore I must not have real friends.”

As I got older the response shifted depending on how I was doing socially. Sixth to eighth grade, I was fine. Ninth-and tenth-grade politics, I was a mess. Eleventh and twelfth grade were fun. We didn’t go crazy; there was no pressure to be cute. Just say you were doing a red theme, dump in a bunch of red stuff, and call it a day. Or skip a theme, take the candy you like, dump it, and call it another day.

I

’m not a kid or a teenager anymore. Haven’t been for years, and yet, Purim brings out a unique social stress that lies dormant all year.

I must put out the disclaimer: I love Purim. Like, really love it. The whole day, all the prep and chaos. Still, every year come Purim I ask myself the same questions. Who are we giving, what are we giving?

There’s the initial list. The neighbors, family, the rav, the old friends, the chavrusa. Then there’s the remember-the-new-people-in-your-life, new coworkers, new walking buddies, new shul-mates. Then wondering if these new people are shalach-manos-giving level. And then wondering: Will they give me, should I prepare for them? And what about last year’s list? Who was a bust, who didn’t seem like they really planned for us? Who should we go to? Who should we let come to us?

And that’s before we get to, “Is what we’re giving nice enough?”

It’s easy to say who cares. I tried that the first year I was married. We gave out a can of Dr. Pepper, a bag of Krunchers, and a few nutty chews. I wrote a little note that said, “We gave you our favorite things, hope you did the same.” Very me. But then we got the cutest butterfly made out of cucumbers and tomatoes. And a perfectly themed “takeout” tray. “So me” quickly morphed into “so meh.”

Because, as I’ve discovered, shalach manos is not like a kiddush in shul or a bar mitzvah, where everyone does what works for them. In this case the occasion is the same, and we’re giving directly to others, not inviting them to a space we’ve organized to our preference in celebration of our own simchah.

We’re reciprocal beings, and when you give me more than I give you, the imbalance rattles.

And so we make nicer shalach manos than we want to. Spend more time and money and energy than we have. It’s not an inferiority complex — this is human nature in reciprocity. It’s why organizations send address labels and calendars we don’t need; it triggers that desire to give back, whether you care about the organization, or you’ve only just heard of them through this mailing.

I say we. I mean I, but I also think it’s we.

I’m aware of the mind games Purim plays on me, but that knowledge hasn’t stopped the playing.

I try. I acknowledge to myself that I’m loved and liked and part of a community — and how many shalach manos I receive is not a reflection of that. Sounds like a message for an eight-year-old, and yet it’s still relevant 30 years later. I tell myself that I give to the people I care for whether or not they give me. That I’m big enough to be vulnerable and say, “I like you and want to be part of your life,” in the covertly overt way shalach manos does. I give something I’d be happy to receive, something that looks tasteful enough to pass muster, but nothing that’ll garner a comment or second look. And most of all I focus on the actual day of Purim and live in that moment. I double down on shiurim, make lists of what to focus on and daven for, let myself live the day for real — not what we’ve turned it into culturally.

And when Purim’s over, I take stock. My kids have usually raided the chocolate. If it’s perishable, it’s already in the fridge. I’m left with cellophane, shredded confetti, and wrecked ribbons across my dining room. All I want to do is clean up so the next day will be calmer.

Labels are lost, so unless I noticed it when you brought it, I have no idea who sent what, who went for cute, who was practical, who phoned it in. What’s left is the exhaustive joy of a day well-lived.

If only I could remember this before Purim.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 983)