I'm not a big fan of Winnie the Pooh.
There. I said it. You can start hating on me now.
The recent adaptations on Playhouse Disney and in the movies aren't so bad, but the original text bugs me. I never thought much about Pooh at all, until someone gave my daughter the book when she was a baby. But when you start reading it to a three-year-old and have to explain why Pooh refers to himself as a bear of very little brain, well...it's an annoying book.
That being said, I feel very much like I'm living in the Hundred Acre Wood right now.
I feel like my life isn't real. I feel like I'm living in someone else's imagination. Some little boy has thought up this place, and these characters, and we exist only for his amusement.
I've decided that my husband is Pooh. It fits. He sort of rolls with it all and has a thing for honey.
And my daughter is Piglet. She's always too small (or too young, or too shy) to do the things she wants to do. Until we push her. And then she sees heffalumps around every corner.
My son is clearly Roo. (Was Roo even in the original?) He's full of boundless hopping energy and curiosity. And although he's the littlest, he's the bravest.
And right now, I'm Eeyore.
Every night as I volunteer at the food booth, I meet a bunch of new people. And I have to be in charge of them. I don't get to fade into the background like I sometimes like to do. And I'm too shy and too slow and too disorganized and too stupid and (most of all) too fat to do anything right.
And goddamnit, my tail keeps coming off. (That's what happens when you trust a button to do a seams job.)
It's only Pooh, Piglet, Roo and all the others that keep me going. And Tigger too. (And who plays the roll of Tigger in my life? Oh! I know! He's resilient to the end.)
But I still end up all alone in my lean-to every night. With my nose and my ass in the rain.
It's time for that bitch Christopher Robin to give over the keys to this life. I'm sick of my role. I'm moving on. No more sad donkey for me.
I want to be a My Little Pony instead.