Raindrops on whatsits and beetles on bacon, five dollar footlongs and elfen Clay Aiken. Koala bears made out of buffalo wings, these are a few of my favorite things…
Ah yes, everyone’s favorite childhood song straight from the voice of a young Julie Andrews. I may have gotten a few of the words wrong but I’m already on a roll here so let’s not digress.
In considering a few of our favorite things — a sort of tradition around this time of year as we begin to plan our fall wardrobes and our imminent holiday wish lists — we at Team MR realized we’d each developed a tick similar to that of Anthony DeMartino (the history professor on Daria known for his bulging right-eye) whenever someone claimed one of our favorites as theirs too. Even worse than the favorite-stealer, however, is when someone doesn’t understand your favorite thing. Or when they think they do, but they have it all wrong.
Oh cruel world! Is there anything more agonizing then the responsibility of having a favorite — when you love something so much that it becomes a burden on your thoughts as though it’s a child of your womb on her first day of kindergarden?
Take, for example, a pair of light blue Marc by Marc cropped pants with zippers on them that Charlotte received while in seventh grade. No one understood the concept of flooded pants during a time when flared jeans were all the rage, but then, a few years later, the exact style she’d made her own became an omnipresent staple at Urban Outfitters. Never underestimate the fury of a seventh grader scorned.
Leandra had a thing about her grammar school, which turned into a shul on certain holidays and opened its doors to non-school members for religious services. Leandra had to endure the heart-stabbing pain of her cousins rushing in like they owned the place yet didn’t even know the secret back stairs to use. This was her school, not theirs. They just didn’t get it.
I became completely obsessed with the movie Across the Universe and tried to watch it with my stupidly large group of girlfriends one evening after everyone had drank too many margaritas. My frustration was paramount to that of screaming in a dream but no sound comes out as they ignored every nuance I tried to point out: “Guys look! That homeless man singing is actually the same artist who covered this very Beatles song that played in the opening credits of The Wonder Years.” No one cared. NO ONE.
Now that we’ve gotten that off our chests — and believe me, we have a lot more, like I cut paragraphs and paragraphs of favorite things that gave or still give us anxiety — but because this is the Cogitation Station it just wouldn’t be right if we didn’t turn the mic over to you.
So tell us, what are some things (clothes, songs, movies, TV shows, places, a discovery, anything!) that give you anxiety because you love them/it so damn much?
Or, if you prefer, add on your own lyrics to the above and maybe we can petition Julie Andrews to release a new version of the song.
Actually just do both. It’s hump day. WOO!