All that Sparkles

When I was little, I absolutely loved sparkly things. I collected any and all sparkly things and put them in little boxes. The list included but was not limited to: puffy stickers with glitter (are you a child of the 80s too? If so, you’ll understand about puffy stickers); little plastic rhinestones that I picked off things I shouldn’t, like shirts and jewelry; broken necklaces; pieces of colored glass and plastic; and buttons. I would sit cross-legged in my room and dump my treasures on the floor and stare at them possessively, like a dragon. A ferocious little 9-year-old dragon.

My parents were constantly ticked off at me when they discovered some sparkly thing I’d taken (or broken). Totally unfair, I know. For my birthday one year, my mom gave me a little red rhinestone ring, and I pried open the setting and added the stone to my collection. I may or may not have done the same thing to some of mom’s jewelry. Maybe I also pulled the fake diamond buttons off one of her dresses, and I possibly even took one of my dad’s cufflinks that had abalone shell embedded in it (or something equally shiny). I’m not sure if I really looked at these transgressions as punishable offenses at the time. I mean, I felt so happy when I was looking at my little treasures that I didn’t feel that it was fair for my folks to be upset that I had simply moved the sparkly thing from once location to a better one. You understand.

Mom collected Swarovski crystal animals that were gifts from a good friend of hers (he may have been a former lover, actually – but that’s another story altogether). They were beautiful. If sparkly things caught my eye because they reflected light in some pleasing spectrum that spoke to me, then these creatures with their many facets of cut-glass fabulousness were like beacons lighting my way home. To thievery. I would snatch them, one by one, when she wasn’t looking (which was often – but that’s also another story), huddle under the table, and pry off the tiny crystal eyeballs, ears, or tails. Oh, and wings. Those delicate wings on the majestic, glimmering crystal swans – those were lovely. And that flower on the bunny! SO. SPARKLY. Whichever pieces I thought I could capture in a moment when no one was around, those would find their way right into my sweaty little fist and onto the operating table. I’d then replace the poor creatures on their lonely little shelf facing in whatever direction would make their amputations less obvious from across the room.

Aside from loving things that sparkled, I also loved having friends. Well, I loved the idea of having friends, none of which were in my possession at any time through early elementary school. There was one girl I had sleepovers with at some point during that time, but I recall her telling me her mother didn’t like me. Really, I’m not sure what I was supposed to do with that.

Anyway, at some point (in third grade? Or maybe fourth grade? The exact year is fuzzy), these two loves merged in my brain – which, as we recall from the last episode, was awesomely creative, though not accomplished in forward-thinking – and crystallized into an excellent scheme worthy of any stupid 80s sitcom plot. You see, we had this (weirdly out-of-place, ostentatious) crystal chandelier hanging over the formal dining room table. I coveted it. When you turned the fake plastic candles on that served as the light source, it was like a kaleidoscope of light shooting in every direction – like a disco ball, but softer and more romantic. So, like a disco ball… in a hotel room. I don’t know, you get the idea. And then it came to me one day: I’d just take some of those. I mean, who’d miss them, right? How often do you look at a light fixture?

Speaking as grown-up Desiree for a second, may I say, I look at my light fixtures quite often. Little Desiree had no idea the noticeable-ness of household items to adults – especially the expensive (weirdly out-of-place, ostentatious) ones.

My cousin Katy will thank me for cutting her out of this photo. You're welcome, Katy.

So, one night, I climbed on top of the dining room table (with my dirty feet, yup, right up there where you eat and everything, smearing that foot dirt all around), unhooked several chains of crystals, and absconded with them up to my room. I (of course) kept the prettiest ones for myself, but I brought the rest to school and handed them out to other kids. I don’t recall what my criteria was for who got some of these, nor do I remember what I said to the recipients, but the overall gist of it was: here’s a sparkly thing. I love them the best. Will you be my friend?

Needless to say, I did not come away from that plan with any lasting friendships, as far as I can tell. (Please raise your hand if you got one of my crystals and still like me, 30+ years later.) In fact, with my awesome powers of hindsight, I realize that I probably just gave those kids one more reason to think I was totally weird (and pathetic). I vaguely recall, though, being super proud of myself and VERY GLAD that I pulled off the brilliant heist without getting caught.

But of course, I got caught. It took my mom a few days to notice the lopsided, romantic (denuded) disco ball, but as soon as she did, she knew which dragon had done the deed. Now, normally I was a girl who could take her licks, but this time Mom came totally out of left field and made the craziest, most horrible demand you could imagine – she wanted the pieces back. All of them. It didn’t matter to her that it was supremely embarrassing to ask the kids to return my stupid gifts; nor did it matter to her that it would make me look incredibly loser-y. (If that’s not a word, it should be.) Shocker: we didn’t get back all the pieces. Another shocker: going to school over the next several days was so, so awful.

Well, what lesson did we learn from this story? I spent these last hours trying to look at this from grown-up Desiree perspective, and really, I don’t know what I would have said to little Desiree at that moment. But I know how sad and embarrassed she felt. As a mother myself now, I think I’d give her a hug and know exactly where she was coming from – anyone desperate enough to try to buy friends really needs a hug. I mean, I’d totally take back my awesome, fake-diamond buttons she stole and sew those bitches right back on my dress – but my heart would also break for her a little. I definitely think all these cringy experiences (believe me, friends, there are many more in my bag o’ history, don't you worry) helped me learn empathy later in life. But would I trade a little empathy for a few friends for little Desiree? Maybe.