It was too nice on Sunday to spend the day indoors at the roller rink, so I suggested we go back to Old Economy Park and get our nature on.
“But you hate nature,” Henry reminded me hesitantly.
“That’s not true! Only sometimes,” I argued, forgetting that my “sometimes” actually means “all of the time.
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I grabbed some old school Fall Out Boy (as in: pre-mainstream explosion) and Finch for old time’s sake, and we actually had an enjoyable, leisurely Sunday joyride to the park, which is no small feat when there’s a hyperactive five-year-old in the backseat. I’m pretty sure he has nature’s equivalent of Pixie Stix and Pop Rocks coursing through his bloodstream on a daily basis.
We were at the park for ten minutes, but probably much less, before I started bitching about bugs and humidity and foreign stenches. Then I walked through a spider web and bitched about that for awhile.
If you ask Henry, he’ll tell you his favorite part was when I started sliding down a muddy deer path and gained so much momentum that the only way I could stop myself was by slamming into and promptly hugging a tree.
But if you ask me, I’ll tell you my favorite part was taking pictures of Henry pissing on God’s landscape and then swearing to Chooch that I heard Jason Voorhees in the woods. Because it’s not truly Sunday afternoon until urine, fear and paranoia enter the picture.
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