The entire idea was so completely outlandish that it had a certain charm to it. Cupping your hands about a shiny round object was a revelation. The first Easter eggs I remember were the plastic kinds, the ones which dropped out of vending machines after you stuck twenty-five cents in. I collected those throughout the year and when Easter came, my Mom helped me decorate them by gluing bits of ribbon and glitter to them.
Later, I was allowed to use hard-boiled eggs. We might dye them or use markers. I was a horrible designer. The eggs usually turned out like a tie-dye gone wrong. My hands ended up looking the same. I wanted to eat the eggs afterwards, but my parents never let me. I guess they were right, because I cracked one of the eggs open and discovered the colors had bled inside--the egg whites had turned blue and the yolk an unpleasant gray.
That had been fun. But now all I have are chocolate bits wrapped in shiny foil. Damn commercialism.
More: The Origin of Easter. I tried finding something that was not an extended religious rant on the evils of pagan worshippers. Sad, but funny. Oh, what lengths die-hards try to be popular (when they already are). (See March 29th entry.)
