My husband made a comparison last night that resonated with me. He said that catching beads, reaching for the throws from the floats, is like picking up shells on the beach.
You've got a bucket of shells, yet you see another yellow one, another olive. Oh, that one's so tiny. Look at that one. It's like the one we got back there.
My mother compulsively scans the beach for shells. This past November, I walked along with her, my son sleeping heavily on my shoulder, and coaxed her to leave the beach. "Mom," I said, a tinge of a whine forming, "you can't pick up every shell on the beach." She stopped, gave me a small smile, and shared, "Your father used to say that to me. What a perfect thing to say on his birthday. Thank you. We can go." She patted me on the arm before turning towards the boardwalk.
Perhaps you think us crazy for being delighted that we have a haul of plastic beads. If you have ever persisted in collecting bits of calcium carbonate from the shifting sands of the beach, you would be like us fools smiling, waving, yelling for beads.