My Heart's Desire

         My mouth gaped open when I saw them, a streamer of drool hanging out the corner rather uncouthly.  They were so beautiful, so elegant, like old court royalty, dressed oh-so-fashionably in stylish matching tuxedos.

         I smiled like an idiot, my mouth stretched in a clown’s grimace, as the parade of penguins waddled past in a straggling line, carefully guided by two zoo personnel.  I completely ignored them, nothing more than tan-dressed dummies, there to facilitate my obsession’s journey.

         Penguins.

         Yes, I admit it.  I’m obsessed with penguins.  I’m practically…shall we say…turned on by penguins.  My ex-boyfriend found it rather creepy that my entire bedroom was filled with penguin plushy dolls and pictures of penguins, and that instead of dirty magazines, I hoarded National Geographic magazines that featured penguins.  I lived in Antarctica for a year just to be with my dear, dear penguins.  I told my friends when I was six that my future husband was a penguin.  When I learned how to swim, I tried to imitate the penguin’s graceful leap out of the water, like a porpoise, only to belly-flop rather painfully.  As a matter of fact, I had a bruise on my stomach for three weeks.  It didn’t deter me.

         So here I was, at the zoo where they had finally gotten a small group of penguins.  They were classic Adélie penguins, and my heart pounded in my chest at the sight of them.

         “Stop it,” my friend said at my side.

          I turned to her, wiping the drool off my chin, and said “Stop what?” in a passing innocent voice.

         “You know very well what,” she glared.  “Stop staring at the penguins.  You’re obsessed, Michele, and it’s getting kind of freaky.”

         “I’m not obsessed!” I denied in a high voice…so high that my friend, Sherri, grimaced and put her hands over her ears, and a pane of glass nearby started vibrating preparatory to cracking.  “Sorry,” I said in a more normal tone, my cheeks flushing.  “I’m not obsessed, though, Sherri, I promise!  I just…like penguins.”

         “Uh-huh,” she stated, clearly unconvinced.  “Really.  Michele, you have to face it.  You need to realize—you’re addicted.  Frankly, I think you should go to Penguins Anonymous.”

         “Penguins…Anonymous,” I echoed, unbelieving.

         “Yep,” she nodded.  “They can help you with this obsession…this fetish.”  She shuddered.  “They’ll help you.”

         So that’s how I found myself in a grubby basement room with about ten other people, all looking rather uncomfortable.  I nervously stroked the tiny penguin stuffed animal I kept in my purse at all times for panic attacks.  The soft plush was the perfect antidote to my frazzled nerves.

         “Welcome to Penguins Anonymous,” a fat guy with Coke-bottle glasses said in a grand, sweeping voice, waving his arms around and nearly falling off the tiny stage.  Nervous laughter broke out, and he flushed bright red.  “This is a group for those of us who…well, have a bit of an obsession with penguins.”  He winked knowingly.  I squirmed in my chair, embarrassed.  So I…well, so my pillow was in the shape of a penguin and I regularly “pleasured myself” dreaming about penguins waddling across ice floes.  So?  That wasn’t a crime.  I didn’t think, anyway.

         “Our friends and loved ones have made us realize that our obsessions with penguins are unnatural,” the guy was saying at the front of the room.  In unison, we all scowled at him.  Penguins weren’t unnatural.  They were perfect, beautiful creatures of nature.  “Er…” the guy faltered when he saw the glares.  “Not to say that they are,” he hastened to assure us, “but to most people…”  He stopped again.  “I can’t do this,” he muttered to nobody in particular.

         “Okay,” he began again, his eyes brightening.  “Forget this.  Penguins are nothing to be ashamed of.  If you love penguins, you love all that is beautiful and right with the world!”

         We rose to our feet, applauding, just as a white-coated doctor burst into the room, hypodermic at the ready.

         “Phil!  You’re backsliding!” the doctor howled.  “No, penguins are bad!  Penguins aren’t beautiful...”  He fumbled to a halt when he realized he was surrounded by eleven angry penguin-lovers, twelve if he counted the backsliding Phil.  A guy across from me was sharpening a penguin-handled knife against the back of his chair ostentatiously.  The doctor gulped.

         “Never mind!” he squeaked and ran out of the room, dropping the hypodermic syringe on the floor.  We spontaneously applauded again, cheering for poor old Phil up on the stage, blinking myopically at the audience.

         Ha! I thought, cheering and waving my penguin plushy doll at Phil.  Another victory for penguins!

         It was a good, penguin-filled day.