Happy?

I have a confession to make: I was a middle-aged Happy Meal addict.

Go ahead, turn away in shock and disgust. But it's true. I went through a period where a Happy Meal was just the thing when I was on the go and wanted something to eat and didn't want to stop for more than three minutes to get lunch (or dinner). The Happy Meal was just the right size: a little hamburger, some fries, a little soda, for about $2.50. And you got a toy with it!

I gave away a lot of toys, and put a lot on my desk at work, too. Some of the collections charmed me, so I'd go back again and again to "Collect 'em all!" The "Toy Story" toys, the "Monsters Inc." toys, the Matchbox cars and yes, all the puppies from "The Dog" series.

It was a consciousness-raising effort, too. Oh, how it irked me in the drive-through when they'd ask "Toy for a boy or toy for a girl?" Because boys got cars and girls got Barbies. So I'd make them tell me over the intercom what the toys were, then say "I want a car. For a girl." (And then I'd have to check the bag, because invariably they'd just hear "girl" and stick a Barbie in.)

Well, I kind of grew out that, and the Great Cholesterol Scare of Ought-Five pretty much cured me of the habit. Now I only get a Happy Meal when I'm on my way to give blood, every three months. A reward of sorts.

So it was a little shocking while cleaning out the garage this morning to go through the box of stuff I've cleaned out of my car over the last few years each time I've washed it. Stuff I wanted to keep but didn't want in the house or back in the car.

Toys. Lots of toys. Many of them still in plastic. Wow, I really did have a problem.