Tuesday, July 5, 2011

In the summertime when the weather is high

It took a goddamned long ass time, but Massachusetts finally decided to let it be summer. And BOY did I cash in on that because as we all know ... bum bum bum buuuum FOURTH OF JULYYYYYY! I spent just about every waking minute of the past three and a half days outside loving life. As a result, I am sitting here today with a swollen knee, cuts all down the right side of my body, what feels like approximately 62 extra pounds of beer weight, and no less than 8 gagillion mosquito bites. FOURTH OF JULY SUCCESS!

As we all know I sometimes have a tough time living in our town. It's a good 30 minute drive from ... everything and in the winter time it's equatable to what I imagine closely resembles solitary confinement. With snow. And if there's one thing I do not do well with, it's anything at all with the word "solitary." But when the summer finally comes and the town swells with beach goers, my cold little heart begins to thaw and sometimes I can even be nice. I SAID SOMETIMES.

But by far the most redeeming quality of living in small town New England is what we call the Spit. The Spit is a giant sandbar that can only be reached by boat or by a good 20-minute walk down a a few pieces of wood thrown on top of some real nasty marsh muck. Being as we don't have a boat, B and I took to the gangplanks and trucked our way out there. The entrance to the marsh is about a 15 minute bike ride from our house. The beach cruiser was ready. I put air in the tires, polished up my beautiful aquablue fenders, and made sure my basket was securely fastened.

Once we got out there, we had a perfect day on the Spit. Sunshine, friends, beers, water that was actually slightly above freezing, and some famous Fourth of July rum punch. When the boats started to pull away after a long day, B and I made our way back to the bikes.

Now let me tell you something about my beach cruiser: I love that bike. My entire life I've lusted after those big, beautiful beach cruisers I would see the local kids cruise around Ocean City with whenever I was on family on vacation. Granted, a beach cruiser just wouldn't have been practical living in Philadelphia. There's no place for cruisin' on those city streets.

So when we moved to the coast, the first thing B bought me was a bright aquablue cruiser. This bike is pretty much the equivalent of a 1969 Cadillac convertible. It's large, it's not designed for sharp turns, it has an impressive paint job, and it holds a lot of shit. Every time I slide onto that extra wide white cushion seat and start a'pedalin', I'm possessed with the ghost of Mungo Jerry and just can't NOT sing. In the summertime, when the weather is high ba da da da da da da da da da da da. And on our ride home, sing I did. Over and over and over. Down hill and up hill. Taking my turns wide, the wind in my hair, a smile on my face. And then I got cocky. I started getting fancy. I had a belly full of rum punch and I was feeling fine. The weather was high, life's for living that's our philosophy. And then something happened. Maybe my tires hit a patch of sand. Maybe I took a turn a little too sharp. Maybe I got distracted by Lucille Bluth driving next to me screaming names.

Most likely, I just plain dropped. But drop I did. I went down. Hard.

Evidence A:

Lovin' on life, shit-eating grin on my face.

Evidence B:

Not so cocky anymore.

But like the little trooper I am, I got back up on that mighty steed and I rode her the rest of the way home. The rest of the night was a happy blur of barbequed foods and Bob Marley songs.

When I woke up in my sandy bed the next morning, I rolled over to a shooting pain down my leg. what the wha?, I thought as I pulled myself into a seated position. There were patches of blood all over the sheets. I was horrified. HORRIFIED. Until I remembered that it was mine. I looked down at my knee, which by then had stopped bleeding but had blown up to the size of a softball.

Fourth of July: 1
Bridget: 0

The rest of the weekend was a perfect combination of cook outs, fireworks, patios, and beaching. And at the very least, I now had something to write about Fourth of July weekend besides just the beaching and the boozing and the BBQing because apparently my mother is tired of fielding phone calls from concerned family members about my extra-curricular activities. It's okay, mom, just don't tell them about all the pots. But this? This is something different for once. Something that maybe my mom would be proud of. PERFECT: beaching and boozing and BBQing and bicycle DUIing! Finally I has something notable to write home about.

Dear mom,

Camp is great. The food is okay. I drank too much rum punch and fell off my bike. Yeah, the one you said is so big even I wouldn't be able to fall off of it! LOLZ! Oh, me! Fallin' off bikes. Not wearin' helmets. Actin' all drunk in public. Lyin' on the side of the road. Don't tell Mommom and Poppop. Please send money.



And for the record, I also read a lot of books. So there. I drink too much. I fall of bicycles. I read lots of books. I sit quietly for hours and try to think of a solution for world hunger. Sometimes I do the dishes. But you know what? Drinking and falling off bicycles makes for a much better blog post.

And lest I forget that I live in a small town, by the time I made it to the beach yesterday for some final Fourth celebrations, approximately three-fourths of the town had heard about my little fall and BOY isn't that just HILARIOUS? You spend a few minutes rolling around on the side of the road and suddenly everyone knows about it.

So yes, this weekend was fantastic. I may not have solved world hunger. But I did solve how to have an awesome Fourth of July weekend. And I plan on repeating that formula for the rest of the summer. Minus the whole falling off the bicycle thing. HOORAAAY SUMMER!


Becky Mochaface said...

I'm amazed you only had a skinned knee. For some reason I had expected a bigger injury from you.

Bridget said...

If it makes you feel better, I also have a black toenail and a skinned shoulder. Bicycle fail.


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