I have a theory that surprise eggs (and if you don’t know what
I mean by these, you are clearly not spending enough time with members of
Generation Z and must Google ‘surprise eggs’ to see for yourself) are a cunningly-devised
plot to prepare children for the roller-coaster rush of playing ‘slots’. Now I
am not a gambler myself, but anything that can trigger raw excitement and elicit
rash behaviour on the part of my conformist mother-in-law must deliver a
significant adrenal punch, and I have witnessed a similar reaction in my
grandchildren when confronted with these pregnant-with-promise plastic ovals.
First comes the dilemma of choice. This can take a disproportionate
amount of time as the respective virtues of the different brands are considered…and
re-considered. For the grand-daughter, it is a relatively straight-forward matter
of sifting through the siren calls of Hello Kitty, Minnie Mouse, Frozen, and Barbie
before casting her lot. One would think that the grandson’s choice would be simpler
still, given his special interest in wheeled vehicles, and indeed Lightning McQueen
usually takes the chequered flag, but for him it is the act of choosing that sends
his cortisol levels soaring. We know – and presumably he does – that he will
probably end up choosing Lightning McQueen but the fact that there has been the
(rare) occasion when he has opted for SuperHeroes or Angry Birds adds avenues
of possibility to his angst. I guess it’s like selecting the one slot machine
out of a darkened room full of flashing, chiming contenders that will hit the
jackpot that day. Stressful stuff.
Once the money has been handed over, making the choice irrevocable,
there follows a period of almost unbearable suspense, interspersed (in the case
of the grandson) with bouts of buyer’s remorse. Then, with mounting trepidation,
the cellophane wrapper encasing the egg is broached. The moment of truth is at
hand…
For the un-egged among you, you will have to imagine (if you
can) the level of extreme anticipation aroused by the act of twisting the two
halves apart to reveal the contents. It’s even bigger than giving birth because
then you know you are definitely going to get a baby, even if you do number
among the fast-dwindling thrill-seeking few who have held out for a surprise
gender-reveal. Because the addictive lure of the egg is that there is a world
of possible merchandising products hidden inside its opaque plastic walls and, despite
the law of probability and bitter experience that suggest that it will be the
same worthless widget as last time, you never know what you are going to get. Surprise!
Like that slot machine.
I have come to the conclusion, after enduring countless
egg-experiences, that humans don’t really like surprises. We like to think we
do, but that’s only true when we get what we want. Which we seldom do, be it
from a surprise egg or a slot machine. I have also come to the conclusion that we
humans possess a seemingly-infinite supply of hope – or that we are really,
really slow learners. Probably the latter. Because no matter how many times we
have had to mop up the tears and pick up the angrily rejected ‘surprises’, those
kids are incapable of passing a row of those rotten eggs in the shops without
begging us to buy them one.
And we do.
