Hobson's Choice
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The worm turns
The worm is turning: I knew that imaginative play would be a big part of our world; I like imagining; I like stories. I wasn't surprised at the age of 31 to be a banker, librarian, and food service worker every day. I wasn't even particularly shocked by the period in which I was having embryos injected into my kneecaps by my two year old fertility specialist.
I didn't anticipate that I would spent part of each day playing Maria to Eleanor's Big Bird, but I ran with it. I don't object to inhabiting the Wiggles Universe. I respond to "Murray" now as easily as to "Mommy," and I've learned to refer to my beloved husband as "Anthony." I even -- and I know this will shock and horrify my readers -- answer to "Barney."
Now I finally find myself balking at the Koala Brothers. I cannot accept that my spouse and I have been reduced to a pair of helpful, middle-aged aviating marsupials. Let's be clear: animated clay marsupials. Particularly, I do not want to go by the name of "Frank." Lucky Chris gets to be "Buster," which has a certain jauntiness. And "Buster" gets remembered. When the name "Frank" slips away from our little language fiend, then I'm just "The Yellow One."
I don't want to be The Yellow One.
7:24 p.m. - 2005-04-03
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