When I was a teenager fourth of july was an absolute blast. We burned holes in our clothes, pulled fireworks open in order to combine them, and once set a neighbor’s bushes on fire. I’m very glad I was at a friend’s house and not anywhere my mother could see because I would have given that poor woman early angina. Every year David and I got a bit safer but no less enthusiastic about turning the neighborhood into a battle zone.
I don’t know what happened in the past year but this fourth of july I was sitting in a plastic yard chair at my in-law’s house, watching the fountains and mortars go off, and I was grumpy as all get out. The fireworks were too dangerous for my liking, everyone else was too reckless, it was too dark, the trees were too close, I was just an absolute nightmare to be around. It had nothing to do with whether or not I got to light them. I was just not into it this year. I think this tears it, I am officially an old lady at 22 years old.
So instead David, his sister Amanda, and I all went in the house to an upstairs bedroom and watched the more young at heart people light the fireworks off out the window while we talked about life and moving plans and how grumpy we all were. It was actually a nice cap to the night.
So what’s the next holiday again? I think it’s Labor Day? Well I’m going camping Labor Day with family so I think I’ll have to take some precautions against my grump. Maybe they can duct tape me to a tree. Or, like, intentionally induce laryngitis.
Or I guess I could assign David to be my aide and he can shush me a lot and add “she doesn’t mean it” after everything I say. But I’m suspecting he’s just as grumpy as I am and I’m afraid that might backfire.