Tuesday 7 June 2011


Do you have those weird holdover things from childhood that are totally irrational, but you just can’t shake them. Sorry, I realize I’m being terribly ambiguous here so I shall – as per usual – ramble on until we are all in full understanding. I’m talking about those weird phobias, habits or convictions if you will, that you’ve had since you were a child and no matter how ‘adult’ – and hence rational – you have become, you can simply not completely kick them to the curb. You know, like being scared of clowns, or having imaginary friends, or thinking that if you stuck your hand behind a bamboo screen at a certain Japanese restaurant in Las Vegas you’d be given a doll made out of mud. Oh, sorry, was that just me?? [What the hell were they putting in my milk back then??]

For instance – and I am taking a huge leap here as I realize this will make me sound utterly deranged (!!), I used to be convinced that my stuffed animals had feelings. Or stuffed little souls I suppose. It got to the point where I had to make sure they weren’t smothered or stuffed in a box – cause of course they wouldn’t be able to breathe – and if someone inadvertently threw one off the bed, I would of course have to pick them up and apologize (quietly of course) for the evil person that chucked them onto the ground. Then there was their positioning on the shelf, bed, what have you. The ones that were in the front could only have that position for so long, as they then would have to be moved to the back so the other animals could get the good view as well. This also pertained to trips, sleepovers etc, as it was only fair that each and every animal got to see the world in equal measure. I was nuts, but very diplomatic.

Now, this is where it gets really irrational. To this day, there is still a small part of me that cannot shake this feeling. I know I know, there are doctor’s for this sort of thing, but every time the King’s monkey stares at me (for those of you that are already confused, that is the stuffed monkey that belongs to my son) with his mischievous little grin, I swear he’s trying to tell me that he’s hungry or bored out of his mind, or simply sick of sitting on the bedroom chair like a vegetable.  Any of you thinking I need to be sectioned, settle down, I have a son to raise and no one else is taking over my position.

All this said, I used to sit for hours and draft wills, so thinking my stuffed animals had brains seems normal in comparison. I’d pensively think about who was going to get my things, including my stuffed children of course, and who would get my beloved bike Charlie with the flowered banana seat. It seemed like a prudent thing to do in case anything happened to me. I guess on the good side of things, I’m no longer scared of the dark or snowcats (those horrible machines that groom the ski slopes), so I’ve made some progress when it comes to being a rational adult.

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