Over at Apartment Therapy, there have been discussions over collections.
I used to collect Snowbabies. Then I realized how expensive they are (relative to a 13-year-old’s idea of expensive) and started requesting cash from my grandma instead. I have probably fifteen or twenty of the figurines, and we did put them out last Christmas. There are a couple I really like (including one dancing with the red M&M character), but overall, I’m not too attached.
I used to have a decent collection of Chuck Taylors, too. Blank, white, red, light blue, brown, and hot pink. Now the only pair remaining is black (the second pair of black, actually). I wore them a couple days ago, and realized they, too, must be retired. I’m too old and I think maybe my feet grew too much in my pregnancy to justify their spot in the closet.
Today, you could say that I collect giraffes and giraffe-print things. It all started when I first started dating my husband. He told me giraffes were his favorite animal. I’m still not entirely sure if he loved them before he met me, an extraordinarily tall girl. I might have been the catalyst. Giraffes quickly became our thing. I bet if there was a song called “Giraffes” it would be our song. For his 20th birthday, before we were really even dating, I loaned him my Paul Frank pin with Clancy, the world’s smallest giraffe on it. We mailed each other giraffe cards, some homemade, while we were going to two different colleges. And now we have a sweet baby that has generously been given lots of AWESOME giraffe gifts. She’ll probably end up being extraordinarily tall, too.
I’m not sure what I want to collect next, but I’ll think of something.