One of my Christmas gifts this year was a set of colorful fountain pens with refill ink.
|Photo courtesy of Basbleu.com|
I've eyed them for a while, and put them on my list for my mom and stepfather. They do a thing where they ask for and want us to do a 3 things gift exchange -- something you need, something you want, something to bring you closer to the divine. We love this because it limits the number of prizes -- we are trying to reduce our "stuff" just for stuff's sakes. The pens went on as my "want." (My "need" was a pair of slippers with arch support, and my "divine" was a donation to FoodLink, a food bank that helps supply all our local food banks, including the one in the community where I teach.)
So far I love them, although there is a tiny bit of smearing with the dark blue and a little leak on the side of that one, too, but nothing catastrophic.
Except, you have to load the ink, so you unscrew the bottom of the pen, flip the ink cartridge, and push it in with your thumb with a click:
OH MY GOD. As I clicked them in all I could think of was so many Follistim pens over a different sink, in a different kitchen. I had to stop and take a breath.
And then it passed.
It's amazing how such a seemingly innocuous thing could just trigger an anxiety response because it flashed me back to the time of loading and clicking and dialing and injecting. But that time is over, long over, and all this pen promises is to write smoothly with colorful ink from a retro metal nib. Nothing more, nothing less.
It just caught me off guard, is all.
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