Happy Teddy/Sad Teddy

You know the snack cookie treat thing called "Teddy Grahams"? I have decided they are my official Treat of Being Alone. There's two versions of these little bears, the one with his little arms raised up -- he's Happy Teddy!!

"Ta DAA!! Look at me!! I'm cheering! Gleefully throwing my tiny bear arms in the air! Dancing about like only miniature bears can!! Woo hoo!!"

The other one is more reserved. He's standing solemnly by, arms at his side, taking in the antics of Happy Teddy . . . and having none of it.

"No sir," says Sad Teddy. "I'm just as yummy as Manic Teddy over there, but I'm not nearly as happy. In fact, I'm quite sad and I'm thinking about sad things, like cellulite and taxes. My tiny bear arms are much too heavy to lift and there's no way I'm going to frolic. Get a grip."

One year in junior high, when everything was really, really, really important and I couldn't imagine that I'd ever be anything but blissful, once I got my license and could actually drive places, because, as everyone ages 12 to 15.9999 years of age knows, being able to actually drive places is clearly the key to everlasting happiness (phew, long intro!!), I didn't have a boyfriend on Valentine's Day. Not that I necessarily remember having one on any particular Valentine's Day in junior high, I just happen to distinctly recall NOT having one this year. Tasha Taylor was my very best friend; we spent every living second together. And she didn't have a boyfriend either. So I bought some Teddy Grahams and got some little, tiny, very, very narrow red ribbon and tied little bowties around the necks of about a million bears and gave them to her on the bus on the morning of the 14th. Because she was my best friend, and I did love her, though not in the Valentine-y way that I dreamt (dream?) of constantly.

Fast forward . . . a whole bunch of years. Ok, twenty years, right to today. I'm sitting at my dining room table on a Wednesday afternoon, studying for the Bar, missing my kids, dreading 8 days from now . . . and eating Teddy Grahams.

I grabbed a handful (What? I'm an emotional eater. Shut up.) and, lo and behold, look at what randomly came out of the bag.

Seriously? ONE Happy Teddy and one, two, three, like 37 Sad Teddys? Or is it Teddies? No, that's lingerie. And one thing we are DEFINITELY NOT TALKING ABOUT is lingerie.

Give it a rest, Happy Teddy. The legions of Sad Teddys and I will not be conscripted into your joy-fest, so put your happy little bear limbs down. We will not be dissuaded. And you're outnumbered.