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There I am - belly down on the living room carpet, Transformers pajamas on, red marker in hand, and a thick toy catalog sprawled open like a holy book of dreams. The fireplace is crackling (occasionally spitting out sparks that absolutely singe the rug - why weren't my parents more concerned about that?). One by one, I flip the pages, circling the toys I must have. Not the ones I want - that would be greedy. Just the essentials. You know, like Voltron, the Ghostbusters proton pack, and every single G.I. Joe.
Of course, with grown-up eyes, I now realize I basically handed my parents a wish list totaling several hundred dollars. In 80s money. They maybe got me one or two things on that list - but honestly? That wasn't the point. The joy came from the ritual. The hope. The delusion. The dreaming. Because on that shaggy, slightly singed carpet, I truly believed I might wake up on Christmas morning to find every single toy waiting under the tree.
So go ahead - flip through this 1984 catalog. Circle what you must have. Dream a little. That's what it's all about.