I know what you did this summer…

And it certainly wasn’t reading this here blog.  AmIright or amIright?

So, hi.  How are you?  Thanks for coming.  Would you like a snack?  How about a drink?  Oh, dear, we’re all out of juice, but I could offer you some herbal tea maybe.  Perhaps a cookie.  How about a hug?  A kiss?  A cuddle?  How about a little leg hump to break the awkward silence?

Anyhoodle, it’s been a nice warm summer so far.  This means plenty of days at the pool, a warm golden tan and some sort of injury for me to moan over, which I’m just about to tell you about.

The 4th of July parade here in my little town of 17,000 is always a big community affair.  Lots of older folks sitting in their chairs, proudly displaying their bedazzled U.S. flag shirt.  Loads of toddlers with starry ruffles swaddling their bottoms.   School-aged children waving at their chums, their chubby fingers fiercely waving their pint-sized flags in recognition back and forth, while their mamas make feeble attempts at corralling them, careful not to spill the mocha latte they are hanging on to in a death grip of desperation.  And of course let’s not forget the gaggle of teenagers taking refuge behind the parked cars you happen to be sitting in front of, smoking weed and doing their best to look inconspicuous to the police officers that are riding up and down the parade route on their bicycles and short shorts.

We go every year for a multitude of reasons, none so little as the fact that it’s the 4th of July, which carries the opportunity to drink deep, thirst-quenching gulps from the fountain of patriotism the parade promises to inspire.

As the parade begins, we are on our feet, hands over our heart as the military march by with Old Glory held high.  I watch as my neighbors and neighbor’s neighbors stand with the same intention of honoring the flag, our nation.  The flag passes and the crowd settles back into their seats as a fire truck scoots by, honking its horn as the occupants wave and toss candy to the eager children below.

Then a local radio station blaring music.  Then the D.A.R.E. police vehicle with flashing lights and a large, friendly animal waving back from the passenger seat.

And then from just beyond our sight we hear the wailing bagpipes steadily climbing closer, and I smile.  The crowd grows excited, and I hear the older woman in front of me say to her equally older-woman friend that it’s her favorite part of the parade.  And then I watch Kalina in her 5-year-old glory, smile broadly at the woman and say in the proudest voice, “Here comes my daddy!  My daddy is in that band!”

The older ladies smile at her and inquire as to which instrument her daddy plays.  “He plays the bass.  The big drum!”  And just as soon as it is out, indeed here comes her daddy banging on the drum, looking handsome in his kilt.  And as luck would have it, the band stops right in front of our chosen location, and they go quiet, waiting for their orders from the pipe major.  And out rings a voice, clear and sweet above the hum of the onlookers, “Hi, Daddy!”  And he turns and smiles broadly, waving with his beaters.  Kalina and AJ wave back excitedly as the pipes wheeze at the signal with a low hum, as the pipers start up again.  And the drummers begin beat their drums again and off they march, their kilts swaying left and right, left and right in unison to the thump, thump, thump.

The crowd cheers happily, and Kalina turns, enraptured, “The tall one that waved at me?  THAT was my daddy!”  And the ladies smile encouragingly at her and then nod their approval to me.

The parade continues, and the children manage to gather a large amount of loot thanks to the steady stream of people on parade.  All the old cars and tractors and men with the tasseled hats riding tiny cars, the cheerleaders with their pom-poms and the high school band.  Floats sponsored by local businesses; dairies, farmers, real estate agents and banks, they’re all there in celebration.

Shortly before the parade ends, I feel a warm hand on my shoulder, and I turn to find Jason standing behind me.  Eyes in the crowd look to him admiring his uniform, perhaps even wondering if it’s true what they say about men wearing kilts.  (I’ll never tell!)  So off we go, breaking down the chairs and grabbing our bags, to walk a few blocks to the city park where the band will be playing a 45-minute set on stage, as they do every year.

The crowd moves in behind and around us.  We’re not always the fastest of travelers with the kids given their short attention spans and legs.  But we make it to the entrance of the park, taking in all of the booths and scents wafting on the soft breeze.  One such smell is the fried dough vendor on our right.

I notice Jason noticing the fried dough, and he turns to me with hunger in his eyes, only it’s not in the way that gives me a thrilling chill.  Instead it’s a, “I just marched in the hot, hot sun in a wool kilt and all I got was this darned water bottle” type of look.  But I quietly shake my head and remind him to be strong because we’re on a tight budget.  His shoulders sag in defeated agreement, and I turn to count the heads of our little ones.

All heads present and accounted for, we walk on.  And then one moment I’m up, and the next moment I am a mere breath from the ground as I feel my ankle wrench and bend at an unnatural angle in what was a tiny, tiny, minuscule, barely existent dip in the road.  (It was as fun as it sounds, I assure you.)  I hit the ground fast and hard, knocking the wind out, and right away could feel the panic attack begin in my chest with shallow breaths as I tried to take stock of what exactly has just happened.  And then realization dawns there is a crowd gathering around me, the crazy lady flailing on the ground, as I acknowledge the searing pain in my left ankle, followed closely behind by the pain in my right knee and the palm of my hand.

In slow motion I look around, noting the looks of concern on not only husband’s face, but my mother’s and the children and the 15 or so strangers gathered around me.  I note the looks of horror on their face, and I croak out a weak, “I’m okay,” just before the hot tears begin to course down my red face.  My mom, thankfully, shoos the crowd away graciously, as I do my best to breathe in a normal steady rhythm as well as making great pains to not give in to the urge to vomit all over the asphalt in front of me.

Jason and my mother’s significant other are at both sides of me and attempt to gather me in their arms and lift me, but I am no help because I am too busy contemplating the fact that I will likely die on this very street because I will never be able to get up.  The headline will read, “FAT GIRL DIES IN FRONT OF FRIED DOUGH STAND.”

Embarrassment takes over, and I allow Jason and mom’s friend to lift me so I can breathe, not vomit and not die on the asphalt in front of the fried dough stand.

I assess the damage.  A mangled ankle.  A bruised and scraped knee.  A hand covered in road rash.  An ego that will never recover.  My last perceptible shred of dignity left is now completely lost, likely tumbling into the vat of raw dough nearby.  No sense fishing it out now.

I grip Jason’s arm in terror, afraid to put any weight on my ankle.  I find it as painful as I imagined.  Lucky me with the vivid imagination.  Tears are still streaming down my face, and I’m trying to take cleansing breathes, still staving off the threat of vomit.  I mutter over and over, “I’m sorry.  I’m so embarrassed.”  My mom poo-poos the idea and urges me to get to a place where I can rest.

Jason leans over, his brow knitted with worry, “Can you walk?”  And when I reply with a meek, “I’m going to try,” he replies, “See, you should have let me get that fried dough.”