Last night I came to the realization that I don’t really like fireworks. At least, I don’t like not being the one setting them off. I haven’t set off any for some time, but I imagine it’s still just as fun as I remember it. But when you’re nearly hit with a roman candle by the kid across the street and the burning shell barley misses going in your front door, you loose some of that enjoyment. Also, it seems that the people in our neighborhood decided to buy only fireworks with whistlers and repeaters. It was incredibly loud, and I’m not sure how Barley wasn’t a wreck.
The kids across the street have been setting things off for a week now, and I’ve gone to the door several times as a bumblebee slides under my car, or a roman candle bounces off the van and lands in the lavender or other dry plants in the yard. I asked them to be a little more careful once, and while I realize that the kids are just having fun, the roman candle bolt that seared between Michelle and my faces seemed almost personal.
Maybe I should set off some fireworks. Maybe that would make me feel better. All I did this weekend was begrudgingly throw some snap pops. And swim. The swimming was great. And so were the cheddar wursts.
If you had blown up a plastic bucket this year, you’d probably feel better.