Clonk.
My friend’s handbag hit the table as she sat down next to me. As I drew breath to greet her, my eye snagged on something hanging off the clutch. The ugliest stuffed toy I had ever seen was clipped to the bag as if it swung from the gallows.
“What is that?” I spluttered. (I may have used an expletive here.)
“My Labubu!” she beamed. The little monster – a gargantuan excuse for a keychain – stared up at me. Furry everywhere else, its face was somewhat humanoid. Its wide smile exposed a string of serrated teeth.
Labubus, I learned, are trendy collectibles. Yep, you fork out sixty bucks for the little devils not once, but again and again, until they form a grotesque little clan that all but obscures your bag.
The kicker? They often come in “blind boxes” that hide your Labubu’s colour and outfit until you make the purchase. Shoppers can’t even select what they like; in this sense, Labubus seem to herald a disturbing era of consumerism for consumerism’s sake.
I’m a staunch defender of Generation Z – I’ll leave the young-people-these-days gripes to my grandparents – but come on. Soon enough the population growth of Labubus in landfills will outstrip the world’s major cities.
I should also mention that I’m not someone who prides herself on going against the grain. I indulge in “the trendy”, from Taylor Swift to Birkenstocks to chocolate coconut water to flared leggings. I follow friends’ recommendations for TV shows, phone plans, nail polish brands, uni subjects.
Usually, I’m not just jumping on the bandwagon – I’ve got a reserved seat. But you can’t do anything with a Labubu. They’re not toys; they’re status symbols and eyesores.
I’ve played the role of the cynic amongst my friends once before. When we’ve travelled together, I’ve found their insatiable desire for souvenirs befuddling.
If we had the misfortune to encounter a souvenir shop – gaudy postcards, keychains, and magnets spewing out from the shopfront – a thorough perusal would inevitably ensue. One of my friends finished a trip with 54 postcards in total – a colossal stack that took up valuable real estate in her bag, as I enjoyed reminding her.
Once, at the airport, I talked my friend down from buying a puppy soft toy clad in a Union Jack cap. The twinkle faded from her eye as I ushered us towards more practical supplies: water and snacks. Although I intended to relay this anecdote with cynical relish, this particularly memory has me wondering – am I a bit of a hypocrite?
If anything happened to Big Ted, the teddy I’ve had since I was a baby, I’d be inconsolable. And Big Ted’s pretty mangy these days – in his 22 years by my side, he’s never been through the wash.
Big Ted was with me the night before I started prep. He was with me when I had pneumonia in Grade Three. He was there the night after I made my first friend in high school, and he was there the night after I failed my driving test. He was there my first night in a new country. He was there the night before I started this internship!
Maybe – maybe – I’ve been a tad harsh on the souvenir-obsessed. I’m clearly not immune to sentimental feeling towards objects. I guess souvenirs – and childhood stuffed toys – remind us of who we were. As the years accumulate, these objects become emblems of continuity and change.
My friend who bought the 54 postcards has stuck them up on her wall, and I must admit, they look great. The mural distils the laughs, views, meals, new friends, and mishaps that coloured each city we visited.
If you’ve been to the Busybird HQ, you’d know that it’s brimming with trinkets, knickknacks, and ceramic and stuffed toys. And from the handmade monkey puppets to the “intern badge” prank (don’t open the wooden box!), each object has a story about the intern or client who gifted it to Les and Kev.
I’ve taken this blog to a rather sappy place with this whole “objects-hold-memories” thrust. But I think the physical reminder that you existed as a younger version of yourself, or you went somewhere once, or you had someone who cared about you enough to buy or make you a personalised gift – these are nice supplements to memories, which can be fallible.
Where the dreaded Labubu fits into this message remains to be seen. My friend promised that the little beasts – no doubt raggedy and balding – would still be dangling from her bag when she was eighty.
But I’m not so sure.