I must have been only two or three years old, but I vividly remember coveting my neighbor's favorite stuffed animal, which must have been some sort of dog-bear hybrid, with a scratched up black nose, a worn out, floppy body, completely furless and threadbare in many places, especially along the seams.  None of my stuffed animals' appearances seemed to shout out "look at me! I am so well loved"; instead, their fur was plentiful and clean, their plastic eyes seemed glazed over, staring at nothing, and their sewed-on smiles seemed phony.  A bit more vaguely, I remember trying to dirty them up, but being dissatisfied with the results.  You can't force that kind of love.

Well, why is it that we are attracted to vintage clothing?  Holes in our jeans?  Antiques? We want to look experienced, even though we are still about as mature as our toddler selves, purposefully dragging our toys through the mud.  We're all so eager to prove ourselves as authentic people,  the tried and true.  We'll gobble up traditions and claim them for ourselves, argumentum ad antiquitatem.  There's corned beef and cabbage on my table tonight, on this Saint Patrick's day, as there was this time last year, and as there will be this time next year.  Harmless, perhaps, but when will we invent our own meal?  We're successful, I think, when others find something in us or about us admirable enough to copy.  Maybe, after they follow our path for a short while, they'll see that they will find more when they branch off.  Maybe they will learn to love their own stuffed animals.