In Which Molly Young Recalls A Seminal Moment From Her Youth

Inflatable

by MOLLY YOUNG

A seminal moment in my youth (pronounce it "yoot") centered around a set of inflatable tulips. Tulips made of beach ball material, weighted at bottom to stand upright when inflated from a nozzle at the base. Tulips from the dEliA*s room decor supplement that arrived one day with the catalog — a poster-sized insert that could be unfolded to reveal model bedrooms made of purchasable components.

The money for the tulips must have been saved-up allowance. I didn't have the skills to generate income in 5th or 6th grade like some kids do. It's not that I wasn't clever enough to come up with schemes; I just didn't connect the scheming with the pleasures of spending money, so there was little motivation to sell cookies or walk dogs.

The tulips cost $20 for a set of four, I believe. Plus $4.95 shipping and handling. In the dEliA*S catalog they were displayed in a room conceptualized to look like a suburban neighborhood: there was a picket fence, astroturf, and lots of sherbet-colored bedding. Kids have a mind for objects. They will often zero in on desirable or interesting objects and focus on these to the explosion of the overall environment. Remember the lily pads in Frogger, the molasses cattails in Candyland, the battleship playing piece in Monopoly? Everyone will have his own memories of object fetish, whether the source be TV, videogame, illustration or movie. The tulips fell into this category.

It was an age of clothing catalogs. dEliA*s was number one, followed by Alloy, MoXie Girl and others that advertised in the back of Seventeen. Receiving a free catalog felt almost like a gift, and I subscribed to every one. Ordering an item involved saving up money and then appealing to Dad to let me use his credit card and repay him in cash. "And the name on the card?" a salesperson inevitably asked when I called to place an order. "David Klein," I said. "It's my dad." There was always a small worry that this would ring suspicious and I'd be barred from ordering.

I ordered the tulips from the suburban-concept model bedroom. The tulips arrived 7 to 10 days later in an envelope, not a box. Very disappointing. Insensibly (but understandably) I'd imagined them being shipped already inflated, as they were in the picture. They had a great plasticky smell: the smell of newness. A smell richer than my dad's Land's End cashmere sweaters. Here, in these vinyl tulips, was luxury. I could not have cared less for real tulips — there was a city park a few blocks away filled with flowers. Flowers were everywhere.

I brought the tulips to my room and blew them up. Our house faced west and my room received afternoon light; the blinds were white and wooden and did not approximate but suggested picket fencing. The carpet was blue, not astroturf, but close enough. Lined up beneath the windows, the tulips satisfied every hope invested in them.

It would be interesting, here, to find a way of quantifying past excitement. Or experiencing it in a way more vivid than recollection. At any rate, I stayed in my room a long time to be near the tulips, and when I went down to dinner it produced the unexpectedly greater thrill of allowing a return to the tulips, a kind of manufactured surprise when I opened the door to find them standing there.

It can't have been the first time I found satisfaction in tinkering with my environment, but this is how I remember it. Acquisitions followed: an inflatable chair (uncongenial), a yellow faux-fur bedspread with denim lining (still have it), sherbet-colored sheets from dEliA*s. The tulips are gone. Like most crucial tokens of childhood, their importance is understood only in hindsight. Having enjoyed them so intensely for a year or two, it was inevitable that they be discarded with equal vigor. A Goodwill store around the corner from our house made it particularly easy to shed unwanted items, and off they went. I wonder if my parents even remember them.

Molly Young is the senior contributor to This Recording. She tumbls here.

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