I'm out. Out out out. I have toys at work, including the framed "From Ackbar to Zuckuss" poster on my office wall.
As a Star Wars licensee, it's probably expected that I have a few knick-knacks around the office, but when people look at the poster and ask, "Do you have any of those figures?" and I reply, "Yes, all of them, and then some," you can smell the fear as they backpedal toward the door.
The only Star Wars related apparel I wear out is a denim jacket with the
Lucasfilm Ltd. logo embossed on the back, a souvenir from a trip to The Ranch.
Every time a Star Wars movie comes out my wife gets sympathy cards from her family. She's great about the disorder though. We're looking for a house and she wants to make sure I have enough space to display - not
store, display - my collection. The way she sees it, I could be spending our money on far worse things.
My friends know, my family even shops for me, and lately we've had quite a few people come off the street to see our apartment (which our landlord has up for sale) and their jaws drop as soon as they see "the studio." The only problem is that these civilians invariably tell my wife to sell it on eBay so we can move to Beverly Hills. Stupid civilians.
Bottom line, it's a hobby. It's not model trains, it's not NASCAR, but it's just as much fun for me and there's no harm in it. So long as I'm providing for my family, there's no shame in it.
(And
Matt, if you ever go to the Super Bowl, PLEASE don't tell anyone. Tell them you're going to a wedding or something instead. I'd hate for people to think you were one of those rowdy, naked, body-painting, armchair football fanatics who loots the streets whether your teams wins or not.
)