When I was ten years old, the unthinkable happened. My favorite toy was discontinued. I was devastated when I learned that American toy maker Hasbro had decided to pull the plug on my beloved My Little Pony toys. Since their inception in 1982, these plastic toy ponies had entertained a generation of young girls. The ponies were inexpensive, came in every color of the rainbow, and had sickeningly sweet names, like Peaches and Cream and Sweetstuff. With a daytime cartoon TV show and hundreds of different pony varieties to collect, My Little Pony stampeded into the hearts of every little girl growing up in the eighties in America and beyond.
I don’t know what bizarre business decision prompted the company to kill the My Little Pony craze at the height of its popularity. But in 1993, I was an intrepid young kid and decided to take matters into my own hands. On an eight-by-ten-and-a-half sheet of loose-leaf, I penned a letter to the president of Hasbro, pleading with him to keep making My Little Pony. I followed proper business letter format, and I made my print as neat and legible as possible.
A few weeks later, to my parents’ surprise, I received a small package from Hasbro. I ripped open the box and inside was a typed letter. It explained that the company was moving in a different direction. Generously, they included two new Cabbage Patch-themed toys for my sisters and me to try out. I threw the box down in disgust and ran upstairs to my bedroom, where I sulked for hours. Later that evening, I walked downstairs back to my family, resigned, sullen, and teary-eyed. My Little Pony had been ripped from my heart, and I could do nothing about it. It felt like my childhood officially died that day.
Perhaps this was an extreme conclusion, but being the oldest of three daughters, I always felt pressured to grow up fast. “You’re so mature for your age!” stated many well-meaning adults in my life. This just reinforced my oversized sense of responsibility from a young age. I felt like I had to be a miniature adult and always set a mature example for my younger sisters. My sisters could still play with toys, but I couldn’t.
And so, my toy ponies went into my bedroom closet. There they were safely sequestered in tightly sealed plastic bins, along with their accessories and the entire pony village. As I slowly closed my bedroom closet door, I felt the joys of childhood innocence dissipate. The door to make-believe was violently snapped shut. I now had to navigate the complex world as a young woman.
Even though I was too mature to play with My Little Pony, I still spent my well-earned weekly allowance on amassing as big a herd as possible. I retreated to my rational mind and convinced myself that their resale value would be worth everything. My obsession with My Little Pony only grew stronger, as I desperately tried to reclaim the pieces of my lost childhood. I had to have all the remaining toy stock before they sold out and disappeared forever. I scoured local garage sales, flea markets, and antique stores for used ponies.
The early days of eBay further fueled my My Little Pony fixation as I bought and sold ponies with other aficionados from around the world. I sold some of my duplicate ponies to mlp83. I bought a limited-edition, mail-order pony from ponyfriend4ever. But no number of ponies could fill the childhood void that remained in my heart.
A few years later, I discovered a goldmine of My Little Pony still in their dusty boxes at the back of a local discount toy store. After my savings ran out, I convinced my parents to buy some ponies as Christmas, birthday, and Easter presents. Besides, I contended, they were a good investment because they were still mint-in-box and would demand a premium on the resale market. My mom and dad acquiesced after remembering all the Star Wars collectibles they had unwittingly gotten rid of in the seventies.
My stable of My Little Pony amassed to over four hundred ponies. The shelves of my closet sagged with the weight of plastic pony bins, perfectly lined up with a ribbon tied around their neatly combed hair. My closet of ponies had become my secret obsession.
As I grew older, my toy pony fanaticism morphed into other (only slightly healthier) outlets. I longed to have a real horse of my own. One summer in high school, I enrolled in horseback riding lessons at a local stable on Long Island, New York. I loved it, but the money ran out quickly. I then began devouring western genre books like Cormac McCarthy’s All the Pretty Horses. I’d imagine myself riding off into the sunset with my cowboy lover, our horses’ hooves pounding to the beat of our hearts.
Thankfully, I met my husband Grif long after my unhealthy obsession with ponies and horses had waned. By then, I had culled my unruly herd of My Little Pony down to one small carrycase of twelve of my favorite ponies, shoved at the back of my closet. It was great to have closet space again, which I filled with clothes, bags, and shoes, like a normal adult woman. Although he made fun of me for it, Grif knew that I would never part with those twelve toy ponies for sentimental reasons.
On the morning of our wedding, I was at the breakfast table of our rental cottage, still in my pajamas. My fiancé smiled and slid a card across the table. “Babe! I thought we agreed to no presents!” I said, exasperated, as I tore it open. “To Alexis, my love…” I read aloud. Inside was a cut-out picture of a horse named Confetti. It had a chestnut coat and mane with a white blaze down its nose. I looked at Grif in confusion. “It’s a racehorse! I bought you a share of a racehorse!” he explained. My heart expanded and my eyes filled with tears, as my childhood dream of owning a real horse was realized. It didn’t matter that I owned only a very small share of the horse, along with three hundred-plus other shareholders. A horseshoe-shaped hole in my heart, empty since I was ten, was finally filled by my betrothed. I gave Grif the biggest hug ever.
After we returned home from our wedding, I pushed past the sparkly outfits and designer bags that lined my closet. I reached for a small carrycase at the back and pulled it out. My twelve remaining My Little Ponies. I took a deep breath and opened the pink latch. There inside, one pony stood out. She had rainbow hair, and her white plastic body was molded into a confident pose with her head held high. I pulled her out of her stall, and her sparkly purple symbol confirmed what I had suspected. This pony’s name was Confetti. It seemed too synchronous, too destined, but my new husband had chosen the perfect racehorse for me.
A few months later, Grif and I met Confetti the racehorse at the Palm Beach Downs training facility in South Florida. I watched breathlessly as the stable hand led Confetti out of his stall, his chestnut coat shining in the morning sun. “He’s a bit unruly,” the hand said, as the high-spirited horse pulled on the lead line. I beamed at my new husband, so grateful that my heart finally felt whole again after all those decades. I imagined Grif and I riding off into the sunset, both atop a chestnut horse, galloping into a life of freedom and adventure together.
love, Lexy
