It's here, you guys. IT'S HERE! Fourth of July is here. In less than 24 hours we will be fully enmeshed in my single favorite day of the year. Nothing compares to the Fourth of July. NOTHING.
As seems to be a trend for me, I've been spending this week getting all jittery with anxiety about any and all forces beyond my control that have any possibility of interfering with the great and mighty awesomeness that are my usual Fourth of July plans. That is, boating to the Spit, drinking 100 beers from my awesome Joe Biden koozie, enjoying a perfect beach day, and eating grilled meats with my friends. Is that too much to ask?
In years past it has been my health and rapidly disintegrating summer hours. This year my current obsession is the weather. The weather has been absolutely gorgeous here for the past five days. Perfect summer weather for a beach bum like me. We've had some rain at night, but by then I've already had a substantial chunk of my sunny hours and I'm ready to lie on the couch in my sandy bathing suit and eat ice cream.
But despite the perfect weather of the past week, everyone is calling for rain for tomorrow's Fourth of July festivities. Nay, not just rain, thunderstorms. Nay, not just thunderstorms, but SEVERE thunderstorms. What did you just say to me?
No no no no no no. NO. Do not accept. Me, staring at the computer right now:
Take it back and give me something better. Give me yesterday's weather of 91 degrees and sunny. Give me today's of 81 and sunny. Give me Thursday's. GIVE ME SOMETHING BETTER. I have sun to feel on my skin and ocean water to play in and beers to drink and meats to eat with lots and lots of ketchup. These are the awesome things that I live for. My entire raison d'être. You cannot do any of these awesome things in severe thunderstorms. I NEED THESE THINGS. I need them now.
I've been checking the weather with a frantically increasing consistency the closer we get to tomorrow, willing that grey cloud and lightning symbol away with the same passion and obsession as a Sunday Baptist preacher in front of a captive congregation. LAAAAAWD DELIVER US THE SUN. Staring at the chance of rain percentage and praying to the gods of beach and BBQ and all that is holy that it drop down. Get low, low, low, low. Applebottom jeans, boots with the fur low. Hell, I'm concentrating so hard on dropping those numbers down with the power of my mind that I'm kind of surprised I haven't pooped my pants. If I would concentrate this hard on activities other than the weather, I'd be a millionaire by now. I'd have written 100 bestselling books, 50 of which had been adapted into blockbuster movies, and would be typing this while simultaneously doing the backstroke in my giant swimming pool of gold coins with my very good friend Scrooge McDuck.
Listen, I had kind of a rough start to the year and I'm full swing into my comeback. Summer has always been my Very Special Bridget Time. But this year, I'm attacking it with a new ferocity. I'M ALIIIIIIIIIIVE. And I'm well. And I might be slightly self conscious of the current state of my beach bod because I still have a FUPA of intestines hanging out up front that make me look like I'm six months pregnant but it's fine, you guys. It's fine. Just load me up with enough light beers and pretty soon I'll be pulling my retro high bathing suit bottom down so everyone on the beach can crowd around and look at my super gross scars and comment that it doesn't reaalllly look like a FUPA (it totally does) and at least it's not leaking any more (whatever gets you through the day). Jesus Christ I need this holiday. JUST GIVE ME THIS DAY.
So maybe if we all cross our fingers and cross our eyes and hold our breaths and WILL that sun to come out and stay out and bless us with her warmth, I'll get my Fourth of July and next week I'll tell you all about how I spent the holiday riding boats and crashing my bicycle and drinking rum punch in the sun for our country. Because if it works, this will be me tomorrow:
And then I be like:
And then I'mma get all:
And then you know I be:
And then on Thursday I'll prolly be all:
Happy birthday, America. Let's go to the beach.