Darwinism Comes to the Toy Store

Back about 20 years ago Kid 1 made it known that for Christmas she would like a doll.  Not just any old doll, though.  This doll crawled, turned her little head side to side, fell down, and then cried. 

This was back when the wife and I were just starting out, and had a small Christmas budget.  We crunched the numbers, consulted the stars, and decided that it securing this doll would not break us. 

The ensuing psychological trauma has caused me to be unable to recall the doll's name.

As Kid 2 was just around one year old, I decided that I'd skip church one Sunday and leave my wife with Kid 2 while I went forth to seek out this doll.  Little did I know that this decision would imperil not only my life, but my very soul.

The next Sunday we rose and I had a bit of coffee, then set out to do my shopping.  Knowing that this was the season's "hot" toy I was proud of myself for deciding to get to the toy store before opening.  I figured that if I got there 15 minutes early I could get the doll, make my escape and be back in time for the football pre-game show.

When I pulled into the parking lot I was surrounded by what the kids now call "old lady cars."  There was a congregation of little old ladies, and some obvious grandads at the front door, restively awaiting the opening bell.  I calmly took my place at the back of the crowd.

Presently a young man appeared on the inside, flew open the doors, and then fled for his life in face of the oncoming horde.  Being raised a gentleman, I waited for the seniors to go ahead of me.  Had I known then what I know now, I wouldn't have been so gracious.  My fellow shoppers all smiled at me and seemed like a pleasant bunch.

The day was crisp and cool, bright and sunny, but as soon as I went into that store it was as if I passed into some sort of shadowy nether world.  These little old ladies, all of whom looked friendly enough outside the store, had been transformed by some unseen force into a lawless rabble, all of whom were rushing towards a display at the back of the store. 

That display was a pile of boxed up dolls...the very doll that I was, myself, seeking.

I noticed a knot of older men; they looked at me with pity and contempt.  As I passed by one old boy crossed himself. 

Drawing a deep breath, I entered the fray. 

Because I was 40 years younger, and was bigger and (I thought) stronger than any one of these old gals I figured I would just work my way through the pack, grab a doll, and bolt for the door.

It was a bloodbath.  These kindly old grannies were snarling at each other, and me, they were waling away with their canes and walkers. One lady whacked me in the shins with her cane; her eyes were bright with the granny madness.  I'm pretty sure one old girl tried to lift my wallet.

Height, bulk and youth seemed to prevail, though, and working my way to the front of the crowd, I reached in and grabbed a box.  Lifting it up I turned and tried to make my way out of the mob.  I got almost to the edge of the riot, but to avoid a little old lady trying to slant through the crowdand I had to hold the box up. 

Which turned out to be a dumb thing to do.  I took several shots to the ribs, and one to the kidneys.  I fumbled the box and it was swept up by two elderly ladies who cackled something at me and then began to fight over the toy; their little granny claws tore at the box and they both vented such vile profanity that I blushed. 

With a new understanding of how the game was played I charged back in, shrugging off the kicks and canes, and came away with another box from the rapidly dwindling stack. 

Rather than forcing my way against the stream to escape, I just kept pushing forward, trying to break through the crowd.  I emerged with my prize, and veered off towards the box games.  I skirted the stuffed animals, did an end-around the My Little Ponies, and cut through electronics.  I took a hard right without looking where I was going and paused to catch my breath.  My heart sank when I realized what I had stumbled into...the Barbie aisle!  Two grannies looked up in surprise, then shrieked when they saw what I held.  They rushed me. 

I beat a hasty retreat and stormed out of that death trap, took a quick left by the soccer balls and plunged into the next aisle.  Air rifles; I was safe!  A kindly old man looked at me; we were the only two on that row.  He regarded me silently for a moment, then stuck his head out and looked left, and then right.  Looking back at me he nodded.  The coast was clear!  I nodded back in thanks, took a deep breath and broke cover. I never saw him again.

Emerging from the air rifles I could see the checkout stand.  I forced myself to walk calmly and confidently up to the girl at the register.  I slammed down my cash in triumph and collected my receipt.  She bade me Merry Christmas and I limped for the door.

I passed that same knot of older men.  Where a short time ago they held me in pity and contempt I now saw nothing but respect in their eyes.  I had been tested in hand to hand combat and had emerged with my trophy.  I was now one of a select club; Dads and Grandads of Little Girls. 

The big day came, the old man in red did his duty, and Kid 1 was ecstatic to see this doll.  Imagine my horror, though, when she immediately grabbed the doll in a hammer lock and spun its head completely around.  She turned on the damn doll and the little hag (the doll, not my daughter) crawled away from us, watching us, then tumbled over and started crying.  It was a cross between Christmas and the Exorcist.

The morale of the story, friends, is that choosing crass commercialism over church imperils your soul as well as your body.

PS--Kid 1 is now dating a fine young man who we all hope will marry into our family.  I look at him, though, and wonder if he has what it takes to fight the  Christmas granny madness.  The poor bastard.