All I wanted was a GoGo Pup. It was a white Maltese on a pink electronic leash that could walk and bark.
“You have a real dog.” They said. It was true.
“Yeah but Chica is an outside dog. And she’s old.”
I wanted what the commercial sold me on — days full of pink-hued sunshine with my pristine fancy puppy that would do whatever I wanted and could go everywhere with me. I imagined how great I would feel to be an owner to my very own beautiful pet that I could name myself, and I planned all the adventures we would go on.
I remember digging up an old second-hand stuffed dog toy from the depths of the closet and rigging it to a rolling Waffle Blocks board, then tying a leash on it. I cleaned up it’s matted fur as best I could and tied a pink ribbon around it’s neck. It wasn’t electronic, but it would ‘walk’ behind me when I pulled. And it was my very own puppy. It felt special, luxurious even.
It was probably a few months later (aka: Forever, in kid-years) during my birthday that my grandparents finally gifted me with my very own genuine GoGo Pup. I was ecstatic, but oddly don’t recall much about it after that. I have fonder memories of my little make-shift pet and the stories we created together than the object I thought I so badly wanted.
More often than not, it’s the stories we tell ourselves about the things we want that make them so alluring.
What we actually want is the experience of something, more so than the thing itself.
Back then I was giving myself the feeling of independence, companionship, and ownership. Perhaps I just wanted something to call my own to take pride in.
It feels so much harder as an adult to find joy with the beat-up old car than the promise of happiness that the car of our dreams holds.
What is the experience we really want?
What are the thoughts we think we will have once we acquire that special thing?
What’s stopping us from being able to think and believe in those thoughts right now?