Sunday, October 23, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
I’m scared. I think I have a new collection, but I don’t want to admit it. If I say it out loud, it will be real and then there’s no stopping it. People (myself included) will buy me this item as a gift. I will suddenly be neck-deep in this useless thing, gasping for air. Every time I see a new one, I will have to evaluate: Should I get this? Does it pass muster? Do I really have room for one more thing? Oh, the anxiety!
I’m not sure the number at which something officially becomes a collection, but if it’s at least 6, then I’m afraid I’ve got a collection of trophies. There. I said it. Gulp…
I collect trophies.
I’ve got 6 and I want more. I love old trophies: the shiny statuettes, the ornate bases, the engraved nameplates. I love imagining the story. Was there a ceremony? Did everyone cheer? How did someone’s achievement end up in this thrift store for $1?
And why do I want this trophy now? Am I so starved for success that I need to collect someone else’s? Or is it like taking in a stray animal? No one else is going to love this trophy so I’d better give it a good home.
Whatever my reasons, I have come to accept this new path. I will bravely march forward into this dangerous new world, scanning the thrift store aisles as I go.