Wednesday, September 26, 2007

There is a threshold through which no man, living or dead, should trod, unless there is a grave charge–or, in this case, a baby registry–to be fulfilled. I’ve never been to the store, never had occasion to be there, but in a season when families appear to be the thing to do for friends, Circuit City can no longer serve as a one-stop shop.

Certainly my Spartan upbringing drew upon a balanced diet of computer chips and the comforting glow of an 85 Hz refresh rate, with regular sessions under the UV lamp for vitamin D, but I realize not all human babies may follow the same prescription. What I didn’t realize, and what I still don’t understand, was how much pink can be contained in a single store.

Storefronts usually swoosh open to the things you want: a blast of air conditioning, great deals, sanctuary from a storm. But when the doors part ways to reveal a pastel wonderland, a velour dystopia rich in cuteness and poor in the reassuring hum of consumer electronics, it doth, as Shakespeare once said, kicketh thou in the teeths.

“Where…where is the Imaginarium?” I asked a kindly old woman, the half-dozen registry pages clutched in my hand as a makeshift lifeboat.

“That would be toys,” she gleefully replied, amused beyond reason at the situation.

On the way to the Imaginarium, I spotted a puddle of–what, urine? A leak from the ceiling, claimed another associate, except I didn’t recall it raining yellow the night before. Couldn’t blame her for lying, though, because they say in depths like these your soul is consumed, and in its place simmers 14 ounces of Boudreaux’s Butt Paste.