Every vacation has a souvenir.
Some people buy a magnet.
Some people buy a Christmas ornament.
I somehow acquired custody of a stuffed sloth I repeatedly stated (both verbally and with increasingly dramatic hand gestures) that I did not want.
This is Floofy’s origin story.
It all started in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware.
You know those boardwalk games where you’re expected to spend $15 proving you possess a skill that has absolutely no practical application? My husband spotted one of those “shoot water into the clown’s mouth” races and immediately announced that he was playing.
Now, here’s the problem: he never loses at this game.
Not “he wins a lot.”
Never. Loses.
A few moments later, the poor teenage employee was handing him a stuffed sloth while the family next to us applauded their kid for coming in second.
I quietly suggested, “You should give it to him.”
My husband looked genuinely confused.
“He didn’t want the stuffed animal,” he explained. “He wanted to win.”
Honestly…fair point.
Then he smiled.
“Besides, I won it for you.”
Reader, this was devastating news.
Because I had absolutely no interest in becoming the legal guardian of a turquoise stuffed sloth.
Instead of walking away from the boardwalk with saltwater taffy or caramel popcorn like a normal tourist, I spent the afternoon hauling around a plush mammal that looked like it had given up on life somewhere around 2014.
Floofy Invades New York
A day later we were packing to leave Delaware for New York City.
I caught my husband carefully stuffing Floofy into his carry-on.
“What are you doing?”
“I won him for you.”
“I don’t want him.”
“But…I won him for you.”
As though repeating the sentence enough times would somehow activate Stockholm syndrome.
So off we drove.
Me.
My husband.
A rental car.
And one deeply unwanted sloth buckled into the backseat like he was coming along to judge our playlist.
New York City Apparently Has Sloth Protection Laws
After three days in New York we were packing again.
My husband complained he didn’t have enough room in his suitcase.
I looked over.
There was Floofy.
His little arms were sticking out of the zipper like he was trying to escape.
I offered what I considered an elegant solution.
“Maybe…don’t bring the sloth?”
Apparently this suggestion was morally equivalent to abandoning a puppy on the side of the highway.
“We can’t just leave him.”
“…He’s stuffed.”
“I won him for you.”
Meanwhile, the man was playing luggage Tetris trying to fit approximately seventeen Starbucks Been There mugs into the same suitcase.
I silently rooted for the coffee mugs.
They lost.
Floofy boarded the train to Boston.
Floofy Refuses to Leave
By the time we reached my aunt and uncle’s house in Boston, I genuinely believed the sloth would have mysteriously disappeared somewhere between Penn Station and Massachusetts.
Nope.
Still there.
Looking smug.
Their dog, Penny, would have absolutely adored a stuffed toy.
I suggested donating Floofy to a loving canine home.
My husband didn’t even hesitate.
“But I won him for you.”
At this point I was beginning to suspect the sloth wasn’t the emotionally attached one.
I argued that he hadn’t won it for me.
He’d won it because someone had placed a carnival game in his line of sight and his competitive instincts had taken over.
This was apparently an outrageous accusation.
“No,” he insisted.
“I wanted to win it for you.”
Reader…this man loves me.
He also has the inexplicable confidence of someone who believes every woman dreams of receiving a stuffed animal won at a boardwalk carnival.
The Bathroom Guardian
Eventually we flew home.
Surely airport luggage restrictions would finally defeat Floofy.
Wrong again.
After a long day at work, I walked into our bathroom and discovered Floofy perched proudly on top of the toilet tank.
Watching.
Waiting.
Judging.
I briefly considered asking why.
Then I remembered exactly how that conversation would go.
“Honey?”
“Yes?”
“Why is the sloth in the bathroom?”
“Well, he likes it there…”
No.
I do not need to hear Floofy’s fictional backstory.
I do not need to know his preferred humidity level.
I definitely do not need to learn why the bathroom has become his forever home.
Because I already know how this all ends.
“I won him for you.”
And apparently that’s legally binding.
So Floofy remains.
Silently supervising every trip to the bathroom like the world’s least-qualified home security system.
I never wanted him.
I still don’t.
But if he’s going to spend eternity overseeing my most vulnerable moments, I suppose I should respect his commitment to the role.
After all…he’s living his best, slightly perverted, sloth life.
*This is a rewrite of a previous post.
