First let me explain: I am neither a child, nor a boy, nor a fanatic Star Wars fan. Still, it is Monday, almost midnight, and I am camped outside a Toys R Us, waiting to buy little plastic space people wielding little plastic weapons.

It's cold and I'm thirsty, but I take only tiny sips of water because the last call to use the bathroom inside the store was an hour ago. They won't let anyone in again until midnight, when the Episode 2 Star Wars figures go on sale, and the madness begins. The closest available bathroom is in a Carl's Jr. across the vast, dark parking lot, and I can't lose my place in line. Getting sent to the back means less of a chance to score the figures I've been assigned to find and more chances of getting pushed and scratched by the crowd. There are not enough of each figure to go around and I'm determined to get some for me.

A group of boys -- some dressed in flowing robes like the little plastic men they're here to buy tonight -- push their faces close to the glass, hoping to get a glance of the employees dumping the coveted figures into bins. They shoot envious glances at Miguel as he is given safe passage into the store as they set up. He's shooting news photos of the madness tonight, and I have volunteered my scratching and shoving talents to help him get the figures he's been dreaming about for weeks. Almost drooling, in fact, at the thought of adding them to the plastic army standing guard on various shelves throughout our living room. There, free of their packaging, they collect dust, lose value and get knocked over, by me.

All morning Miguel quizzed me on the figures he wants to add to his horde. I didn't bother to remember the bizarre names, I just memorized the photos we found on the net. The list includes: the reptilian-looking thing (Miguel insists it looks more feline) whose weapons look like kitchen cutlery, the chick with the black and white stripy things on her head and the chick with the green face.

Unlike my fellow shoppers, I'm not here for everything. A woman ahead of me has two shopping carts ready for battle. She guards one, while her mother sits on a beach chair, one hand on the other cart. They want it all, they tell me.

Near the front of the line, a family is camped on the concrete having a fast food picnic. They have a shopping cart and three baskets. They've been here for hours.

I sit cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the locked front doors of a tacky furniture store. I have nothing with me but a bottle of water. I'm opting to grab neither basket nor cart; they'll just weigh me down. When the doors open I'll ditch my water and move faster than everyone.

I ponder this as a boy in a leather jacket begins to explain to me his elaborate plan to find all the plastic people on his list. It's needlessly complicated. And boring.  Somehow, I've conveyed some sort of interest and he's encouraged to move on to recounting the plot of The Lord of the Rings. I tell him -- twice -- that I've already seen the movie and really liked it. He's undeterred, but then inexplicably (or maybe there is an explanation and I'm just not paying attention anymore), before he finishes his dissertation on the fires of Mordor, he shifts to the topic of ultimate Southern California geekdom: The San Diego ComicCon.

"I know what it is," I say, cutting him off. "I've gone to the last four."

His eyes grow rounder and scan me for signs that I am part of his tribe. But I have no light saber, no comic-themed T-shirt, no Ren fair outfit, no constant patter about Episode 2 spoilers. I seem like a regular, boring girl, which in this setting, I guess I am.

"I tag along with my boyfriend; I like to people-watch."

It's not what he had hoped to hear, but I'm in. We converse on all things Con as I impersonate a girl who might actually know something about comics and other things that are cool in this world.

The conversation, however one-sided, does help speed up the minutes and before I know it, people are standing, getting ready. They're opening the doors.      There is no stampede, but people walk fast. Some run.  At the last minute I grab a basket, if not for storing toys, then for a shield. A security guard nods his approval.

Shoppers station themselves at the bins, spreading wide their arms and legs as they lean in so there's less room for others. No room for the competition. I walk slowly, watching the madness, noticing that I've only seen a handful of kids.

I am the competition. There's no room for me at the bins. People already have full shopping carts and baskets and I have nothing, not even a strategy. Even my bottle of water is gone.  But I'm persistent and finally, I find an opening, worming my way into a spot the way only five-foot-three girls can.

There is no semblance of order in the bin. You dig and dig and dodge fingers and elbows and unwanted figures blindly tossed back in.  Still, most people are polite, especially the girls. People say "excuse me" and "pardon me" and "ouch."

It's beginning to look hopeless. No bug looking guy with kitchen tools or chick with the black and white stripy things on her head. No green face. There are plenty of Peasant Disguise Anakin Skywalkers, though. He's unwanted plastic. I move from bin to bin. There's more room now that people are off to the side sorting through their shopping carts. Their strategy, I've figured out, was to load their carts with everything within reach. Horde now. Sort later.

I find figures I didn't see online and load one of each into my basket for Miguel to take a look at before checkout.  I find the bug looking guy and the stripy head.  The rest on my list are nowhere to be found, but I'm satisfied.

It's been 20 minutes and I'm tired. I wander the floor watching people and when my feet start to ache I lean on a shelf and find a tiny Sam Jackson jammed between stuffed monkeys. I throw him my basket.

"Whoa. You got a Mace," I hear a man say. "Mind if I take a look?"

"Sure," I shrug. Mace Windu. I liked him in Pulp Fiction.

"Good find,"  he says. "Which bin did you find it in?"

I tell him it was stuffed between monkeys and he looks disappointed because he'd been eyeing those monkeys for his daughter.

"Mind if I see what else you got?" asks his friend.

His sifts through my basket. He has everything I have. Everything, but a ...

"You've got a Tusken Raider!"

"I do?!"

He ogles my find.

"Oh yeah, it was just sitting over there," I say, coolly, like I don't even really want it.

He calls over his friend who is now busy selecting a stuffed monkey.

"Dude, look, Tusken Raider."

I'm good.

I find Miguel near a team of boys who have set-up "shop" near the video game section. They have stacks of figures, ready to trade. It looks like they have at least five of everything and business is good. A girlfriend patiently stands nearby, a figure dangling from her fingers.

"What'd you get?" I ask.

"Oh, just Padme Amidala. She's the only one I wanted."

Miguel sorts through my catch and discards a few, including Mace. He wants the Mace making a I'm-kicking-your-ass face and I didn't see any of those. But overall, I've done good. Almost $80 worth of stuff good.

I scan the floor one last time as Miguel pays for the figures. The mess isn't that big. Here and there a few things have been knocked off shelves. A few stragglers double-check the bins for things discarded or overlooked. Nothing. Everything worth all of this is already in a basket, a cart or headed to new a home. All that's really left are dozens of Anakins. But nobody wants Anakin.