It's Easter Sunday and a I think I'm going to do little more to celebrate than eat a peanut butter egg. Hey, just because I'm not Christain doesn't mean I can't co-opt their chocolate rituals.
But here's the weird thing I associate with Easter: The Smurfs. Smurfette actually.
For some reason, my parents put a Smurfette figurine in my Easter basket one year. I'm not quite sure why - I've never been particularly girly or comfortable with my "feminine wiles." But, there, among the pink plastic grass, sat a little blue and blonde girl.
And, lo, I loved her! I carried her around with me the whole day. And so a tradition was born.
By the time I was in High School, I had entire shelves lined with little plastic dolls. Ballerina Smurfette, Smurfette sitting on a mushroom, cheerleader Smurfette, you name it.
I don't know what happened to those figurines. I assume that they're in a plastic bag somewhere - maybe the closet in my old bedroom or the attic. I guess it doesn't really matter where they are. Because they're really in my heart. And I guess that's where it's most important.