When I had my first boyfriend in middle school, he used to buy me stuffed animals. It was a logical move on his part – I was a fourteen-year-old girl, after all, and that’s what the other guys bought their teenage girlfriends. After about the third such animal, I realized that I was going to keep getting those things until I drowned in them. I told him that I was not really into such things. They were nice, I appreciated them, but they were taking up space and I was not that type of girl. I was really nervous about telling him, because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Honestly, he seemed relieved. After that, he only bought me one stuff animal ever again, a little bean bag Snoopy, which I loved and kept on my bed. I still have it, as opposed to those first few bears with hearts on their tummies, which have long ago been given to Goodwill to be bought by other young puppy lovers.
While I was not a plush toy kind of girl, I was definitely a Peanuts fan. For a while, I had quite the Snoopy collection. My mother, sister, and I all collected the stuff. When I started thrifting and yard saling, I found lots of opportunities to expand my collection. My boyfriend, happy to find something easy he could get me, gave me Snoopy jewelry. Once our relationship became serious enough that I began receiving presents from his family, his mom got in on it, too. She herself was a huge Wizard of Oz fan, and her house was littered with figurines and books and more Dorothy-related objects than you even knew existed. I think she liked the idea of another collector, and she gave me some really nice Peanuts stuff at Christmas, expensive things that I never would have bought for myself. I was afraid to take some of it out of the boxes, because they were meant to be collector’s items. And I had that familiar feeling of unease again, where I could see that if I didn’t take action, I was going to have a house full of cartoon characters and not much else. I didn't want to have a bunch of stuff that I had to leave in the box. It seemed so pointless. But if you think it’s hard to tell your sixteen-year-old boyfriend to ease up on the stuffed animals, then imagine how much harder it would be to tell his mother that you’re not ready for Snoopy to take over your life. I had a really good relationship with her, too, and I didn't want to ruin it. To be fair, she never told me not to take the stuff out of the box. In fact, she would have sat on the floor and played with them with me.
I chickened out and mentioned my dilemma to the boyfriend instead, hoping he would drop the hint. He didn’t seem very thrilled about the idea, though he understood where I was coming from. As it happens, we broke up, which indirectly solved the problem. Maybe he did end up telling her, because if I remember correctly, she gave me a nice set of wine glasses at my last Christmas at their house. I still have those glasses and I still use them, well, except for those three that I broke. The ironic thing is that while I keep four in the cupboard, the rest stay in the original box, waiting and hoping for the day that I break another one.
What was I talking about?
Anyway, the point is, I used to have a lot of Snoopy stuff and I used to be actively seeking more and more. But I’ve cut back a lot. I have some items, but if you only saw one or two rooms in my house, you might not notice. I still periodically buy more at yard sales, but I am much more selective than Sandra of years past. Lots of people like Peanuts and have a mug or a pair of socks. Sure, if you listed everything I have, it would seem excessive. If I died tomorrow and you went to my estate sale, there would be a small but thriving Snoopy section. But scattered throughout the house the way it is, I think I have it in check. It doesn’t look like the Peanuts gang is the only thing in my life. I also have Muppets in my life, and books, and bad movies, and a musician, and funky lamps. Mine would be a great estate sale. I'd love to go to it, if I weren't dead.
A friend from high school visited me a few months ago, and she mentioned that I obviously still had something of a collection going on. She remembered the Sandra who never met a Charles Schultz item she didn't want. I felt like defending myself and telling her that it could be much, much worse. But I let it go. I just didn’t let her play with the Snoopy bean bag, the last stuffed animal ever given to me by a boy.
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