How I Became a Lego Man
My journey from a Commodore VIC-20 kid to a 44-year-old Lego Maniac
I’m at my desk and the world has gone away.
Usually writing is what gets me here, the zone where nothing exists but the blank page in front of you, filled up steadily with letters, then words, then paragraphs, eventually stacking across pages.
Lego. You get them or you don’t.
But right now, it’s a big bag of parts and several tiny wallet-sized plastic bags with neon nubs and itty-bitty squares and the large, colorful manual laid out in front of me. Nothing exists but these little bricks and what they will form, stickers carefully peeled and stuck on, bricks stuck together just so, the process ending in a perfect replica of what’s displayed on the box.
Lego. You get them or you don’t. And if you get them, it’s a waste of time to explain to you the Zen appeal of a build, and the complete satisfaction of finishing a set. The larger the set, the bigger the rush.
I’m 44-years-old and I’m a latecomer Lego Maniac.
I didn’t have Lego as a kid. That’s not from Santa neglect or a tragic pining that was never fulfilled. Lego aren’t my “Rosebud,” with psychic damage attached to each peg of a two-by-eight piece.
