Your co-worker's retirement, your kid's soccer coach, your neighbor's baby shower—at a certain point, "In THIS economy?!" stops being a joke
In Reader’s Digest’s new series, “Is It Really Rude to…,” Charlotte Hilton Andersen tackles low-stakes etiquette questions from everyday life using a combination of her common sense and vast knowledge from writing 50-plus etiquette stories for this site. Have a situation you can’t stop ruminating on? Email us at [email protected].
The text arrived while I was standing in the checkout line at Target, arms full of toilet paper and the kind of discount Halloween candy you buy in November because it’s marked down so much it’s practically free and you have no self-control. “Hey! We’re collecting $75/person for Mike’s going-away gift! Venmo @OfficeSirenJen by Friday!” Seventy-five dollars. For a man who had only ever spoken to me twice, once to ask me to move my car and another to explain what offsides in soccer means (I didn’t ask). On one hand, he’s high up the management chain and I want to be seen as a team player. On the other hand … he’s high up on the management chain and his paycheck can eat my paycheck as an appetizer.
The reply-all responses were already rolling in. “I’m in!” “Count me in!” “So excited to celebrate Mike!” I stared at my phone. Then I stared at my cart full of 75-cent Reese’s cups. Then I did some quick mental math that made me want to sit down on the Target floor and have a moment. (I am the cheap friend.) It’s not just me who’s had this kind of meltdown, right? Group gifts have metastasized from an occasional workplace nicety into a full-blown financial ambush that follows us everywhere—the office, church, the soccer field, the PTA, the neighborhood group chat, your cousin’s wedding where you barely know the bride but definitely know her registry includes a set of $400 sheets from Portugal. (I feel like you could get a plane ticket to Portugal and pick up the sheets yourself at that point.)
I looked again at the screen, thumb hovering over my phone like I was defusing a bomb, paralyzed by the most modern of etiquette dilemmas: How do you politely decline to fork over money for someone else’s gesture of goodwill without looking like a monster who hates both gifts and joy? Raise your hand if you’re just as confused as I am regarding proper gift-giving etiquette. Read on as we discover the answer together.
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The group gift industrial complex
Group gifts aren’t just an office phenomenon anymore. They’ve spread into every facet of our lives.
There’s the workplace version: Retirement parties for people you’ve spoken to exactly twice, boss-appreciation gifts that feel vaguely extortionate, and the dreaded “baby shower for someone in Accounting” collection that somehow requires $40 from everyone in a 50-person department.
Then there’s the school version: End-of-year teacher gifts (noble, but increasingly elaborate), coach gifts, and the room parent who sends a Venmo request reminding you that the reason she’s the room parent is because she’s independently wealthy and can hang out at the school during the daytime.
The friend group version: This one hits different, often because we’re closer to these people and genuinely love them. But when you add up bachelorette-party contributions, birthday dinners where someone suggests “a nice gift from all of us,” and baby showers where the registry includes items that cost more than your first car, it gets pricey fast.
And let’s not forget the family version: Group gifts for milestone birthdays, holiday presents for the cousins you see once a year, and that one relative who always organizes something elaborate and then charges everyone through an app while you’re still processing Thanksgiving leftovers.
The case for just paying up
Group gifts exist because they solve a real problem. Nobody wants to show up to a retirement party with a $15 candle while someone else rolls in with a KitchenAid mixer. Group gifts democratize generosity. They allow us to present someone with a spa weekend instead of seven individual bottles of mid-tier wine that will sit in their pantry until the next regifting opportunity arises.
Then there’s the social math to consider, especially if it’s at your job. When you decline, you’re not just opting out of a gift—you’re opting out of having your name on the card and the inclusivity that goes with it. In certain ecosystems (offices, soccer teams, your mother-in-law’s side of the family), that absence is noted. Filed away. Whispered about at future gatherings.
My friend Janelle, who has survived multiple workplace gift cycles with her reputation intact, puts it bluntly: “I always chip in because it’s not really about the gift. It’s about not becoming the villain in a story someone posts on social media.”
And honestly, sometimes it is genuinely nice to pool resources for someone who deserves it. Teachers work incredibly hard. Coaches give up their weekends. Your co-worker who’s having a baby is about to enter a dimension of exhaustion that deserves to be recognized with a nice diaper bag.
The case for politely declining
But at what point did “optional” start meaning “mandatory or we’ll judge you silently”? Group gifting has gotten out of control. Between co-worker birthdays, boss appreciation, baby showers, weddings and retirement parties, some people are hemorrhaging gift money like they’re funding a small nonprofit.
There’s also a significant fairness issue lurking beneath all this forced generosity. Different people have wildly different relationships with money—and those relationships are shaped by everything from income level to upbringing to whether you grew up in a house where your grandmother washed and reused Ziploc bags. The $50 that feels like pocket change to a senior manager might represent a significant chunk of an entry-level employee’s grocery budget. Group gifts can inadvertently create a two-tiered system: those who can comfortably participate in every social ritual and those who have to quietly opt out and sit outside the group.
And let’s talk about the gifts themselves. I once contributed $40 toward a “luxury gift basket” for one of my kid’s teachers that turned out to be an ugly wicker basket containing a Ralph Lauren beach towel, a beach umbrella, fancy sunscreen, and wine. We live 1,000 miles from the nearest beach, and the teacher doesn’t drink alcohol. That was several years ago, and I still get mad thinking about it. Surely she would have just preferred the cash rather than a $75 beach towel (why, yes, I am so petty I looked it up).
The surprising sociology of saying no
Here’s what nobody tells you about group gifts: a lot of people feel exactly like you do. They’re just too scared to be the first one to say it.
When I started quietly polling friends about group-gift requests, the responses were remarkably consistent. Nearly 100% admitted they’ve felt pressured to contribute to group gifts they didn’t want to participate in. (Shout-out to my friend Eli who has absolutely no qualms about saying no. Ever. Bless him.) Nearly half said they’ve gone without something they actually needed in order to chip in for a gift they felt socially obligated to fund.
But the truth is that almost nobody actually keeps track of who contributes and who doesn’t. The person organizing the gift is usually too busy collecting money and buying presents to maintain a detailed spreadsheet of moral failings. This matches what etiquette experts consistently say: Most people are far more understanding about budget constraints than we fear. The shame we feel about declining is usually way worse than any actual judgment we receive.
So what do you actually do?
The secret is that you absolutely can decline—no one should ever go into debt for any type of group gift. You just need to do it gracefully. Knowing how to say no politely is a life skill that pays dividends far beyond group-gift situations.
Option 1: The gracious decline. A simple “I can’t participate this time, but please sign my name to the card!” works wonders.
Option 2: The partial contribution. Can’t swing $75? Maybe you can contribute $20. This is completely legitimate. The idea that everyone has to contribute equally is a fiction. Real friends—and reasonable organizers—understand that people’s financial situations vary.
Option 3: The alternative offer. Perhaps you can’t chip in money, but you can contribute in other ways. Offer to pick up the cake. Volunteer to write a heartfelt card. Organize the signing of said card. These contributions have value, even if they don’t show up on a Venmo statement.
Notice what’s missing from all of these options? Explanations. You don’t owe anyone your financial autobiography. “I would, but I just bought new tires and my kid needs braces and honestly I’m not even sure Karen remembers my name” is too much. The more you explain, the more it sounds like you’re apologizing for having boundaries, which undermines the boundary itself. Polite people know how to decline without excessive justification—and so can you.
A word to the gift organizers
Now, if you’re on the other side of this—the person sending out the Venmo requests and the reminder texts—let me offer some gentle suggestions that will make everyone’s lives easier.
- Make contributing optional.
- Suggest a range instead of a fixed amount.
- Choose a reasonable amount.
- Keep it simple.
- Accept “no” gracefully.
The verdict
It is not rude to decline chipping in for a group gift—but how you decline matters. We’ve all been socialized to believe that saying no to any social request makes us terrible people. But boundaries around money are healthy, normal and increasingly necessary in an era when there seems to be a collection for something every other week. A gracious decline, delivered without drama or excessive justification, is perfectly acceptable. The people who matter won’t care. The people who do care … well, they probably won’t be in your life forever.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, those Reese’s aren’t going to eat themselves.
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