Opinion: I’m Not a Toys R’ Us Kid, I’m a Toys R’ Us Man

Lately I’ve found myself staring into my bathroom mirror, unable to recognize the man behind the sunken eyes, encroaching wrinkles, and that one stubborn patch of psoriasis no prescription skin cream can seem to alleviate. Yet underneath my deteriorating physical appearance lies the mind of a boy who made a binding contract with a giraffe while watching Nickelodeon one afternoon in 1991 that I would remain a Toys R’ Us kid until the day I die, just as their commercials mandated.

But 35 years later, the crushing expectations of society have all but reduced that promise to some folly of my youth. But there’s nothing stopping me from being a Toys R’ Us man, God damn it.

What does that entail, though? Being a “TRU Man” (note to self: trademark that phrase) is a lifestyle where I must remain in a state of childlike excitement over plastic crap while somehow remembering that I have to pay the mortgage on the first of the month.

When I’m shifting into Toys R’ Us Man mode, I’ll hit the floor and throw a temper tantrum as if I’ve just been denied the Lego pirate ship set. This works at home or even at work, and there’s like a 40% chance whatever it is you want (the last piece of birthday cake in the break room, going to the strip club with the guys) will be granted to you if you shut up and stop making a scene.

But this isn’t about negotiation tactics; it’s about stuff. Specifically stuff from when your entire childhood was defined by consumerism disguised as interests. That’s why I only shop at thrift stores where I can only hope some clueless employee has priced a used N64 for $20 and that one Ninja Turtles line where Leonardo was a Native American Chief for some reason. I feel like I could punch a child for looking at the same Huffy bike as me!

Being a Toys R’ Us Man isn’t perfect, since I can’t circle everything in the Christmas catalog and conspicuously place it on the kitchen table, but refusing to grow up and acting like an insolent child has helped me not have to deal with any of the realities of the world around me. Now if you excuse me, I believe there’s a Fisher-Price car with my name on it that I need to cram into and then yeet myself down the stairs, like I should’ve been doing all my adult life.

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