Welcome to the Real World
Remember the Velveteen Rabbit? All he wanted was to become real. Unfortunately, this didn’t happen until a little boy loved him enough to shower him with Scarlet Fever germs. Then he was put out in the rain with the trash and almost burned to death. He finally got to become real, but not before he pissed his little bunny pants in fear.
Whenever I think about the difference between reality and fantasy, I remember my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Barnhill. I can still see her bedecked in her red teacher sweater, hands on her hips. “Alice is not a liar,” she explained to my mom, “It’s just that five-year-olds have trouble distinguishing between reality and fantasy.”
Evidently, the day before (when asked what I did in school that day) I gave my mom a detailed, 20-minute description of the “paper cup people” that we made. I was very specific. They had pipe cleaners for arms. The next day, my mother came to pick me up and excitedly asked my teacher, “So, when do I get to see those AMAZING paper cup people?” Mrs. Barnhill looked at her like she was an escaped mental patient. As Mom tugged at my arm and the two of them talked, I started to realize, “Oh yeah . . . that never happened.” I went home confused and deflated.
The next day started normally. Mom shoved my older brother and I out the door and as soon as we hit the sidewalk we instantly became bags of flour, poured into a mixing bin at the Kraft factory. By the time we reached Dover Street we had been boxed and shipped to Safeway where we waited patiently with a dozen other boxes of Macaroni and Cheese. Finally, a smelly fat man bought us, boiled us, and (tragically) ate us. By the time we reached the school yard we were processed noodles who had met their ultimate demise in the city sewer.
Our Macaroni and Cheese saga always went smoothly because there were never any adults to ruin it. Other parts of my fantasy life were extinguished more quickly. For example, when I bravely gave birth to my teddy bear in the front yard (my brother was the obstetrician on call who expertly delivered him from underneath my t-shirt) my father witnessed the entire distressing scene. Instead of helping, he simply chuckled and said, “Alice, why do all of your babies have fur?” I was livid.
Sometimes I wish I had held onto that anger – that impulse to immediately defend yet refuse to justify my fantasy life. I still maintain my own little pretend world, but it’s more of a plague than a passion and most of the time I keep it to myself. Lately I’ve been entertaining a fantasy about buying a dozen Baby Ruth candy bars and secretly dropping them into the display toilets at Lowe’s. I cannot explain why I think this is funny, nor would I actually execute my plan. It’s just something I suggest to my friends to make them laugh and possibly get a drink to come out of their nose.
Besides, by the time we reach our late twenties even the most harmless fantasy must submit to a little reality. In my adult imagination I never drop the candy bars into the toilets and make it out of the store undetected. A clerk in plumbing always spots me and calls the security guard. Or, worse yet, I run into one of my high school students just as the last candy bar hits the bowl. “Miss Smith?” He stares at me quizzically, not sure if it’s me. He walks closer. “What ARE you DOING?” I just stand there silently. I cannot explain myself.
A few months ago a friend of mine bought me a refrigerator magnet with a picture of a 1950s, Donna Reed-looking character dusting off an arm chair. The caption reads, “She loved imaginary men most of all.” I guess everyone knows I still need a little fantasy in my life. But I steer clear of the candy aisle, and I never buy Macaroni and Cheese anymore. Somewhere along the line, things just got a little too real.
Whenever I think about the difference between reality and fantasy, I remember my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Barnhill. I can still see her bedecked in her red teacher sweater, hands on her hips. “Alice is not a liar,” she explained to my mom, “It’s just that five-year-olds have trouble distinguishing between reality and fantasy.”
Evidently, the day before (when asked what I did in school that day) I gave my mom a detailed, 20-minute description of the “paper cup people” that we made. I was very specific. They had pipe cleaners for arms. The next day, my mother came to pick me up and excitedly asked my teacher, “So, when do I get to see those AMAZING paper cup people?” Mrs. Barnhill looked at her like she was an escaped mental patient. As Mom tugged at my arm and the two of them talked, I started to realize, “Oh yeah . . . that never happened.” I went home confused and deflated.
The next day started normally. Mom shoved my older brother and I out the door and as soon as we hit the sidewalk we instantly became bags of flour, poured into a mixing bin at the Kraft factory. By the time we reached Dover Street we had been boxed and shipped to Safeway where we waited patiently with a dozen other boxes of Macaroni and Cheese. Finally, a smelly fat man bought us, boiled us, and (tragically) ate us. By the time we reached the school yard we were processed noodles who had met their ultimate demise in the city sewer.
Our Macaroni and Cheese saga always went smoothly because there were never any adults to ruin it. Other parts of my fantasy life were extinguished more quickly. For example, when I bravely gave birth to my teddy bear in the front yard (my brother was the obstetrician on call who expertly delivered him from underneath my t-shirt) my father witnessed the entire distressing scene. Instead of helping, he simply chuckled and said, “Alice, why do all of your babies have fur?” I was livid.
Sometimes I wish I had held onto that anger – that impulse to immediately defend yet refuse to justify my fantasy life. I still maintain my own little pretend world, but it’s more of a plague than a passion and most of the time I keep it to myself. Lately I’ve been entertaining a fantasy about buying a dozen Baby Ruth candy bars and secretly dropping them into the display toilets at Lowe’s. I cannot explain why I think this is funny, nor would I actually execute my plan. It’s just something I suggest to my friends to make them laugh and possibly get a drink to come out of their nose.
Besides, by the time we reach our late twenties even the most harmless fantasy must submit to a little reality. In my adult imagination I never drop the candy bars into the toilets and make it out of the store undetected. A clerk in plumbing always spots me and calls the security guard. Or, worse yet, I run into one of my high school students just as the last candy bar hits the bowl. “Miss Smith?” He stares at me quizzically, not sure if it’s me. He walks closer. “What ARE you DOING?” I just stand there silently. I cannot explain myself.
A few months ago a friend of mine bought me a refrigerator magnet with a picture of a 1950s, Donna Reed-looking character dusting off an arm chair. The caption reads, “She loved imaginary men most of all.” I guess everyone knows I still need a little fantasy in my life. But I steer clear of the candy aisle, and I never buy Macaroni and Cheese anymore. Somewhere along the line, things just got a little too real.
posted by Alice | 4:16 PM
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