Not these bunnies.
This man’s bunnies.
I have a long running history of, let’s call them intense interests. Normally my obsessions are understandable. For a while there I would only talk about a certain type of fuzzy collectible.
But I was twelve so that was developmentally appropriate. Although talking about Beanie Babies all day, every day for two years might have been a little much for my parents.
And of course there’s my long running fascination and love of anything to do with this celebrity.
For a short period of time I watched this woman everyday while eating my steel cut oats.
But then, somewhere around 2010, something strange happened. When I say strange I mean strange for me, it wasn’t just your run-of-the-mill homeless man setting a fire in public, or threatening your upstairs neighbor, or starting a frog pond in your basement kind of above average occurrence.
In 2010 I became obsessed with these women.
It started out innocuously, in the way that these things do; I began watching their television show “The Girls Next Door”. But then my interest took on a life of its own, first I bought the box set of their series. Then I watched the whole thing start to finish. When I was done I watched it again.
And I kept watching it.
And reading about them.
And acquiring Playboy related paraphernalia- come sleep on my red satin Playboy sheets; they’re super slippery!
I followed them on Twitter, which was quite remarkable considering that I barely know how to use Microsoft Word most days.
The obsession grew and I kept watching and re-watching their ditzy antics. My mother was ashamed, my father was amused, Sula was bewildered. I would proudly trot out my Playboy magazines at dinner parties. “Look at them” I’d exclaim, “Aren’t they beautiful?” My favourite part was when male guests would take the opportunity to spend twenty minutes perusing the magazine at the table.
This bizarre preoccupation with all things Playboy was still going strong when I met Tex. But somewhere around the time that I moved to live with Tex, my passionate, undying love of the bunnies began to diminish. Instead of watching them every day, it was once a week. And rather than discussing their latest exploits at length (Holly had a baby! Kendra is contemplating divorce!) I talked about work, or books I was reading. Gradually as my life became my own personal fairy tale, including a tall, dark handsome cowboy and adorable baby, my interest in these women’s laughable exploits shrank, and I put away the DVDs and their scrapbook, rather than sitting open on the table or couch moved to the book shelf.
I even contemplated selling my Playboys back to the used bookstore. (We won’t discuss how grossed out my mother was that I bought second hand nudie magazines.) Now, the girls have returned to their rightful place in the world, I think of them as often as I ponder the Kardashians or string theory, which is to say rarely, although it must be said that I never turn down a trashy magazine or book which mentions the lovely trio.