I know Easter has come and gone, but I still have chocolate eggs on my mind. And I know from experience that the only way to get something off my mind is to put it onto paper (or onto screen, if you will).
If you want to remember something, write it down. Getting it out of your head onto paper somehow increases its memory stickiness. (Hang on, I feel a nonsense blog piece brewing. I think I need to write this idea down so that I can remember to think about turning "memory stickiness" into a blog piece.)
Where was I? Oh yes, I was Easter egg hunting. (Hey! I think that is an excellent term to describe “distracting oneself.” Easter egg hunting. I think I need to write it down so that I can remember to think about turning it into a blog piece.)
Drat! I’ve done it again, distracted myself. Let me start my Easter egg story again.
Over many centuries and in many cultures, the egg represented new life, rebirth and Spring. It still does today. But somewhere along the way, this symbol of promise has become a little tainted. At least for me.
The Easter eggs of my early years had substance. Some considerate person had stuffed them with a gooey, sweet filling. Stuff you could bite into, stuff you could chomp on, stuff you could savor, stuff that made you feel stuffed.
During my sensitive teen years, you know, everybody-hates-me-nobody-loves-me phase.... What do you mean you don’t know? Don’t tell me it isn’t a phase! Please don't tell me it was just me! (If it was just me, maybe I should write it down. No, not as a blog. As pseudo-therapy.)
Where was I? Oh yes.
During my sensitive teen years, I discovered the trick Easter egg. (No, not Easter egg trick. As kids, we knew the hidden eggs weren't really a trick. They were a treat. If we could find them, before the nosey German Shepherd did.)
The trick Easter egg, whether hidden or visible, is all shell and no substance.
Don’t misunderstand me. I love chocolate. Which is why the shell seduced me. (As I explained, I was sensitive back then. And easily seduced. Even at that young age.) But I don't blame only the chocolate shell. Size also played its part. (Such is the art of seduction.)
Like most seductions, so I’m told, there was an immediate let-down. The shock! Biting into thin air! No gooey stuff to chomp on, no stuffing to savor, no feeling stuffed afterwards.
So began my steady decline into a cynical adulthood.
Thanks to those empty symbols of fake fertility, I am indelibly suspicious of anything too nicely wrapped, hinting of seduction. Older and wiser and less seduceable, I remain on guard against the latest sugar-coated ball of air, the not-quite empty promise.
(If this backstory piece seems awfully similar to the original blog post, well, it's an example of another empty promise.)
Welcome to my side of the nonsense divide.
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