Dear Fireworks: It's Not You, It's Me

To me, one of the great challenges of getting older, is finding the magic in things.  I probably say "Awesome" ten times a day, but how much awe do I really feel in my day-to-day?  Don't get me wrong;  there are plenty of things - my kid saying something funny, a March Madness  buzzer beater, getting to third base on a random Tuesday morning - that deliver excitement.  I'm talking more about stuff that brought joy as a child, yet today is incredibly mundane.  You know, stuff like birthdays, Friday nights, Christmas morning, and, yes, Independence Day fireworks displays.

I've reached the point where, if it weren't for The Girl, I'd stay miles away from our local fireworks exhibition.  I don't want to be the dad that shortchanges his kid from experiencing all the joys of childhood.  Our town actually puts on a decent,  privately funded show.  Nothing to complain about with the show itself.  But nothing to do back flips over, either.    Like sweet potato fries or new episodes of the Gilmore Girls, the idea of fireworks is more appealing than the real thing.  If you've seen one small town fireworks display, you've seen them all.  Sparkle, Boom, Repeat. 

You wonder if the cost is worth the result.  After a long weekend of swimming, sleepovers, and beach visits, Grace was tired and on the verge of ornery.  Amanda and I were tired and on the verge of crabby.  Pile in the car for one more late bedtime?  Great idea!  Add in muggy, buggy, and boring, and you've got a real party.  The beauty of having a holiday from work is having no firm schedule.  Because I am obsessive about being early and getting a good parking spot, I, of course, put us on a schedule.  Unfortunately, my need to arrive early directly antagonizes  my inability to wait patiently for anything.  An hour early, plus an hour to let traffic subside or sitting in the thinning traffic, adds up to two-and-a-half hours invested in  a twenty minute fireworks show.  A show during which Grace spent almost as much time fiddling with her snacks and glow stick jewelry as she did admiring the rockets' red glare. 

The one saving grace (For me a saving grace, for my wife, a chance to admonish me.) to attending these types of events is they give me a chance to engage in one of my favorite pastimes:feeling morally superior to the masses.  Clearly, not jumping right in the car at the show's conclusion only to sit in traffic for an hour, makes me so much smarter than the average citizen.  By not engaging in the honking, cursing, and cutting off, I demonstrated what a good person I am.   Pointing out these glaring examples of stupidity obviously makes me a Father-of-the-Year candidate.  My favorite moment was a guy in his giant, 4WD redneck mobile.  I guess he thought constantly revving his souped-up engine would make the snarled traffic magically move faster.  Because, you know, HE'S ready to go.  His truck was tall enough that, as I watched his growing impatience, I became increasingly convinced he was going to go all Bigfoot on the cars in front of him.  I laughed like crazy when, after not moving for twenty minutes, he got out of line, circling the parking lot to get in the other line that appeared to be moving a smidge faster, only to have his original lane break free and exit the parking lot.  My laughter elicited an eye roll and stern look from my wife, but brought me great joy.  Oh wait - I did find joy at the fireworks!  Hot damn, maybe it was all worth it, after all.  See you there next year.