Today, I went sledding. My friend Bill and I packed up his 5-year-old nephew and two dogs and went out to a hill behind ISU where a bunch of families were. First things first: yes, I did grab a sled, get a running start, and send myself plummeting down the snow pile head first. Sweet childhood I was home.
Let me first say, it’s been a few years since I’ve been sled riding. College is often a time for this, but being an RA for my last two years, I lacked the proper coterie of spontaneous people (read: friends) to make that happen.
Growing up, I spent every winter sled riding up until I graduated high school, and probably after freshman year of college, too. While Bill was throwing snow balls at his dogs today, I told him the story about how we’d always go to the Kramers’ house—they had this awesome drop-off in their back yard—and how we’d run, throw ourselves sledlessly over the edge, smack against the icy grass and slide all the way down to the creek. Wonder.
I have a habit of extending the life of typical childhood activities well past my adolescence. I definitely trick-or-treated all of high school and would have in college, too, if that was a thing. Actually, I think that was a thing, but you just got beer instead of candy (beer = trick or treat? debatable).
I figure, if you can get away with it, why not? And with a lack of shame rivaling my lack of height, I’m really the perfect candidate to keep the ball rolling.
So tonight, I was driving back from the Winco, jamming out to some late night jazz on NPR, holding my $3 Tisdale wine against the passenger seat, when I noticed a flash in my periphery. Mayhaps it could be a long lost friend? Au contraire, my dears, it was not a friend, but a foe! A car full of mischievous teens making faces at me from their backseat.
Oh did you pick the right car tonight, teenies.
Without a second thought, a toothy grin erupted on my face and I frantically waved a gloved hand at them. Beeping and waving still, I hit the gas to keep up with them, changing lanes to meet their white car at the red light.
One ostentatious drunk-seeming girl was instigating the whole thing, and at the light, she pressed her face up against the glass, scrunched hair flowing.
I tried to roll down my passenger side window to further our communique, but it was frozen, and didn’t budge until the light changed. Teen Driver tried to get away from me, but that was not about to happen.
I beeped again and again, chasing them down Yellowstone Ave. and then—sweet serendipity! Another red light! This time I was ready, and rolled my window down and waved even harder. “Hey guys!!!” Life’s biggest smile on my face.
The rest of the car had resigned to being had, but Drunk Girl wasn’t having it. As we pulled through the light, she stuck her face up through the seatbelts to the front window, and screamed, “SHOW US YOUR TITS!!”
“My tits??” I asked, with real concern. “But I can’t!! They’re too big!! I can’t get my tits out! *Struggle noises* They’re too big for me to get them out! WHY DON’T YOU SHOW US YOURS??!”
“Show us your tits!!” Drunk Girl repeated.
“I told you!! They’re just too biiiiggg!!!” I cried as a I merged into the turning lane to pull onto my street. “I’ll out-teenage you any day, bitch,” I said, laughing out loud (LOL’ing) to myself, partially because of how ridiculous saying something like that to yourself is, but also because I felt so awesome for winning.
I parked, poured myself a glass of $3 Tisdale, and popped in “UP.” My friend Genevieve was coming over, and there’s really nothing better than sitting back, relaxing and enjoying a high quality cartoon with a good friend. When the world ends, it may be all we have.