#51. Lego my Egg-O

In my post, Never Say Never, I did the dirty deed of coming up with 50, not 100, things about me. As I really don’t think you give a rip what my favorite color is (terracotta this week, but navy last, I’m pushing for avocado in the next couple), or whether I wear high-cut briefs or low-cut thongs (neither), I tried to really dig deep into the cavity that is my head. And surprisingly, some of y’all actually read it. I know, because there were comments and questions, and even more unbelievable – emails.

“MORE!” Your poor twisted souls asked for more. So, I have been trying to appease YOU – the mighty readers that drive my will to write – because honestly, I literally sip-up your comments as if they were the best lime margarita & sangria swirl ever blended; oh, except more salt – I need MORE SALT! BUT – and here’s the thing, my brain works in spurts and sputters.

So, today, while looking through last month’s photos, the wheels of my brain sputtered and cranked and *ding*diddle*dum* it dropped a thought from way, way back – even before the time I worked an entire 1000 piece puzzle of Ms. Piggy in purple sequins. It sat on a card table in my bedroom for weeks, but I did it. OH YES I DID.

Anyway, back to the thought droppage.

Remember Legos? I call the above home design “Lego my Egg-O”. Profound, no?

This brought to mind yet another memory from my past. The one wherein I played with Legos and talked to myself. A lot. All by myself. I didn’t/don’t have siblings. I didn’t have an imaginary friend. I didn’t have a real life friend sitting there with me. That was waaaaaay before cyber friends. I didn’t have stuffed animals around me. I wasn’t recording my voice. I just talked. And talked. And talked. All.by.myself.

It was almost like a play, but it wasn’t. I was multiple people/voices/personalities, and usually someone was in a dreadful spot and I had to both create a problem and save the day. I was a hero and a villain. Out loud and alone.

I have to hand it to my parents. I know they heard me. Surely they stood outside my door and questioned whether to put aside money for my therapy. But never did they let me know they heard me. Never did they come through the door with a straight jacket or muzzle.

I can’t remember when I stopped talking scenarios out loud to myself, but I do know one thing. I think – honestly think – maybe it left when the Legos were packed up.

Funny thing those Legos … I unpacked them and heard my 10 year old in her room today … alone … talking.

Edited to add: Interested in #52? –> Bathroom conversations