I have long been a sucker for anything that is soft- stuffed animals, those squishy beanie pillows from Brookstone, fleece blankets. I lament having to wash new sweatshirts and sweatpants because the plush softness inside succumbs after a few bouts with the spin cycle. It also turns out that people get legitimately creeped out when I randomly start petting the inside part of their arm.

During my childhood, I had little - if any - control of my softophilia. For example, unlike my brother, I didn't have a blankie weathered hard with drool, filth picked up from being dragged across the ground and a few too many spills. Instead, I carried around an old, mustard-yellow t-shirt that was once my dad and that I'm fairly sure that he acquired free from a walk-in clinic or real estate firm. But believe me... it had this one spot just big enough for my finger to rub that was softer than the finest silk. If I'd had the income or a hefty inheritance at that young age to afford a velvet pillow, I probably would have used it to carry around the beloved t-shirt with style instead of draping it around my neck as to ensure that it wouldn't hit the ground. It was undeniably hideous and had without a doubt been moments away from being lost amongst the pile of rags destined to be put to use for car washing, checking oil levels, burying hamsters headed for a better life and a larger spinning wheel (RIP Peanut... you're still missed) and a wide range of other nitty-gritty household roles. But I, the Patron Saint of Ugly T-Shirts, salvaged the poor thing from such an unfortunate, undignified fate and - to my parents' dismay - insisted on taking it everywhere. It mysteriously disappeared a few years later. Information leading to its recovery and/or whereabouts may or may not yield a considerable reward.

When I was four (and five, six, seven, eight...) years old, I was under the self-involved impression that there existed evil people (alias: jealous meanies) who coveted my soft belongings and were on a quest to take them from me. So, to ensure that none of my soft friends fell into the wrong hands, I fervently insisted on either a) sleeping inside my closet with all of my stuffed animals, or b) piling all of my plush and bean-filled treasures on one half of the bed and covering them with a sheet. In hindsight, the fact that they formed a mountain rivaling Everest may have given it away, I thought myself particularly intelligent as these measures were sure to throw off robbers who came in through my window in search of stuffed bears, bunnies and other woodland creatures. But hey... hindsight is 20-20.

When I ceased fearing robbers and instead began contemplating the possibility of house fires destroying my menagerie of pals, I actually wrote a letter that I would leave at the foot of my bed in the event that I was trapped in my room by searing flames and thus required a heroic rescue by firemen. There were clear instructions laid out directing the East Lyme Fire Department as to which of my cherished companions to rescue as they pulled me to safety. While I was sure to write the letter in another room so as not to cause suspicion throughout the crew, the fact that I had to pick and choose the hypothetical survivors while leaving the others to perish wracked my early childhood days with guilt and haunted me for years. The Toy Story movies and their theme of forgotten toys being cast aside like yesterday's news were like daggers to my heart... and that's practically two decades removed from those early years.

I was not what one would traditionally call a quote-unquote "normal" child.