On almost a weekly basis, someone calls me a fun hater and I guess that could be true. When a friend suggests going to see some hip up-and-coming punk band at some trendy club in the city, I think about some miserable mosh pit, glittery girls who will make me feel a decade older than I already do and, of course, the head ache of the following day. And that doesn't even touch on the fact that it would probably require me to be in public past midnight, which is something I only do twice a year if at all possible. That's only one scenario. There are really millions that some well-intended and much cooler friend will pitch to me, only to find out what disastrous calamity I am certain will break-out if we go forward with the fun.
Now, I know most of you probably are finding all this hard to believe if you were around me often in high school and then very little since then. It's not that I'm against beer-drinking good times, but that I just want them to be over by, say, 8 o' clock. And any situation that might result in the misty-eyed, nostalgic REMEMBER WHEN stories years down the road just make me nervous as hell. Perhaps I always felt this way a little, but didn't want to miss out on all the action. Perhaps motherhood has morphed me from the life of the party to a stick in the mud. I really don't know, but I don't want to apologize for it, either. At the risk of sounding a bore, you can keep all your sexy, slick sports cars and jets skis. I'd rather get a new mini van, especially one of those fancy numbers with the swiveling seats so that we can play Uno while driving down the road. Now that's a party.
While I may be more like a 72-year-old than a 27-year-old, let me tell you who isn't giving up the good times -- my little sister Katie. Now I'm not professing to be a psychic or some brilliant know-it-all, but when one situation turns out the same 100 times, I can see it's gonna be that way 101. And when she and her husband decide they are going out on the town, they go out on the town, LIVIN' IT UP, LIVIN' IT UP.
On at least a daily basis, Katie runs some brainstorm by me that she think is going to be awesome, like on the road with the Rolling Stones awesome. And as soon as she finishes telling me this new plan, I immediately begin discouraging it. After all, after almost each excursion, she tells me the next morning that she is never doing that again and the swinging details of the night before reminds me of some chaotic scene from Boogie Nights or Dazed and Confused. And, not the good parts, either. The crazy man shooting out the back window parts.
With the exception of the Country Palace, no place makes me more nervous than the lake. Any Lake. While you might think of a cook out under the stars with friends and beers, I think sunburn, drunken mayhem in boats and, of course, the backaches from sleeping in some damn tent. No thank you.
Although I always think the lake is a miserable outing I want no part in, the upcoming Christmas in July held annually at Foss Lake is just all those awful things on steroids. First of all, there are about 100 times more stumbling fools out there than normal. Don't get me wrong, I like to drink some beer myself. This is in no way passing judgement on those who like to partake in a little drinking. I just think it's better done in small numbers. I have no desire to throw up with 1,000 of my closet friends. Intimate circles with those I've puked with many times, please.
On top of hosting at least double the people that should be out there, it is a camp ground. What does this mean? Well, for one, it means that there is poor lighting. So, you have too many people who have subsequently had too many beers tripping around aimlessly because they can't see where they are going, unless of course they get lucky enough to catch a glimmer of light from a passing Roman Candle. Because it's some sort of postponed Fourth of July extravaganza, of course there are fireworks. But, there is no designated fireworks area, so they are just blowing off at random with no rhyme, reason or, best of all, warning. You better friggin' believe there will be Black Cats, millions and millions of those heinous Black Cats. There's a reason I never joined the Army, so why in the hell would I want to go into some hot, sticky simulated war zone.
Speaking of things they don't normally have at camp grounds, the huge lack of bathrooms needs little explanation as to why it is up the negative box.
And don't think that the law enforcement officials aren't hip to all this law-breaking. There's only so many ambulances that can be sent to one place before they figure out that maybe something fishy is going on. Now, for all your law enforcement folks who are going to be forced to man this patrol, I'm truly sorry. You have a dedication to your job that I don't understand. There isn't enough money or pension in the world that would make me try to facilitate order and safety for people who so clearly do not want it. God bless you.
Just when you finally give in and start drinking beer, as dangerous as you know it may be, you see some kid and you feel bad. Why anyone would take a child to this alcohol-fueled accident in waiting, I'll never know. On the upside, if you can keep a 3-year-old alive in this madness, he or she will have balls of steel. They won't be scared of shit! I don't necessarily know if that's a good thing, but if you are aspiring for your kid to be a UFC fighter or a drug-running crime boss, this would be great training.
Now, why am I blogging about Christmas in July, or D-Day in July as I like to call it? You are probably wondering since I think I've made it pretty clear that I won't be going. Well, let me tell you why. Because my foolish little sister told me to. She told me today that she's thought up this brilliant plan to have some sort of keg co-op at this nightmare in order that she can consume a huge volume of beer with a smaller price tag and then I went through all the above-listed reasons for why I think this is a colossally poor idea. She then said to me, "Well, I think you should blog about this. If you are right, you will look like a genius and if you are wrong, you will have to admit that you are a fun hater who tried to prevent me from having this great time."
There was a time that I, too, loved Christmas in July. I think I was 20 and had a constant, streaming blood alcohol concentration of about .08. I would allot for higher, but it would go down for a bit while I worked and slept. But even in that hazy stooper I could see what a bad idea this is and I wasn't trying to orchastrate a keg co-op. It is like 10 kinda poor ideas rolled up into one gigantic chaotic disaster on water.
So, there you go. If you want to go out, I'm not gonna stop you, either. My words of reason certainly aren't going to work on my sister. But, they are up here on the blog. Check back after Christmas in July, miserable effin' event that it is, to see if I am boasting my genius or, as unlikely as I think it is, admitting that I'm a total kill joy.