On the ride home. I had just about lost every last marble I had left in my head. Look closely. You can see one coming out of my ear.
I don’t know who I think I am. I’m not even whole Irish. I am half. Half. But yet I stayed in a full-on Irish rage for close to an entire weekend. This rage actually continued through today because I had a really bad day at work. But I will save that for another time. Because what happened today deserves a post all on its own.
Let me remind you that I was in Irish Hell for close to 2 days. I say close to 2 days, because I had to cut one day short for work. Which was a treat. Seriously. This was my weekend: Saturday – Irish Dance performance at the Irish Festival. Sunday – Yet another Irish Dance Competition.
When a town puts on a festival of any kind, people come out in droves. It could be the Annual Festival of Accountants. They come. Because unless you live in NYC or Paris, there is never enough to do. Add in beer, bagpipes and irish dancing and it turns downright insane.
The venue for a festival of this capacity should be held in a small stadium. Not an irish pub the size of my living room. When I came to this realization, which was when the light turned from green to red TWICE and I didn’t move but a car length, I should have kept going. That is IF I could have kept going. I would have saved myself some indigestion, an ulcer and a few gray hairs.
Just because you see a spot in an overcrowded parking lot, does not mean it’s yours. Even when you are on top of said spot. Even when you are about to turn into said spot. How do I know? Because the guy in front of you, although he originally passed it up, can decide to slam his car into reverse and enter your spot on two of his four wheels. All while his wife is telling you to back up.
My next episode of Road Rage came when I had to exit the lot and go back to the light that went from green to red twice. Except this time, I was going to run the part where it turned red to make a left. Which would have worked out fine if the guy coming in the opposite direction didn’t decide to ALSO run the red light. Can you believe he shot ME a dirty look? Of course, I shouted some obscenities at him. While my window was down. It was then that I saw a fellow irish dance mom walking on the sidewalk with her sweet little child, someone that I do not know well, look at me disapprovingly. Proud moment in my life. Proud I tell you.
I noticed there were 2 potential spots. I say potential, because two old ladies were shooting the breeze. Without a care in the world. Just standing there. Talking. While twenty thousand people are looking for a place to park, they decide to stand there and talk. Not get in their cars, back up and meet for coffee. Stand there and waste two perfectly good spots talking. So, I did what every other irate woman does…made my own spot. I didn’t care who or what I was blocking at that point. I had a piece of the entertainment in my car. Did they want to see some Irish Step Dancing or what? Or should I say, “Irish BREAK Dancing.” Because that is what one spectator referred to it as. Yes sir, it’s Irish Break Dancing. Have another beer.
After I elbowed enough people to cause permanent damage, I managed to find a spot in the grass with the other moms. Our dancers were soon herded like cattle into the place. I barely got the chance to wish her luck and say goodbye. I tried to catch her performance. But do you know what it’s like to get past 8 thousand tipsy irishmen? It wasn’t even worth it. Knowing she had a safe ride home, I left for work. Feeling a little defeated and a lot sad.
Sunday was going to be a better day. Or so I thought. It started great. Getting The Kid’s hair into her wig went perfectly. No one screamed at each other. Little did I know, the wig would be a complete waste.
We rode up to the competition with friends. It was an hour and a half drive so it was great to have the company. It was also great to not to have to drive because of what happens to my legs after 12 minutes in the driving position.
The place was a zoo. As always. And it’s rainy, wet and cold. I opted for flats. Not boots. My feet were wet before the day began. Fun stuff. I had on a short sleeve shirt. Some sane voice in the back of my head told me to grab a sweater before we left. So I did. It’s probably the only thing that went well. Listening to the little voice in my head. Because it was freezing. Everywhere I went. Again, should have checked the weather report. This is becoming a real problem with me.
After we secured some real estate, the girls started prepping. You know, putting on the shoes, stretching, practicing. Have you ever known of an injury occurring while stretching? It can happen because it happened to my child. It involved a high kick followed by an ass on a twisted foot and a lot of tears. She had just come off of a stress fracture of her other foot. This felt very similar. She was scared. I was freaking out. Not a good combination.
Needless to say, she did not dance. Which was the smart choice. But still. $40 to sign up for these effing competitions that suck the ever loving life out of me and she could not dance. It was disappointing. And to add insult to injury (here’s a time when that expression actually makes sense) we were stuck there until the very bitter end because of our carpool. The car ride home was really fun. And happened to save my sorry ass from completely going over the edge. After spending the next morning in the orthopedics office, it was determined that her injury is a sprained foot. Alleluia.
This recent occurrence prompted me to write a list of all her injuries incurred during Irish Dance in the last 10 years. Actually, these injuries all were incurred in the last three years, but who’s counting?
- 1 broken wrist
- 2 knees suffering from Osgood Schlatter’s Disease
- 2 hips suffering from IT Band Syndrome
- 1 stress fracture of the left foot
- 1 sprained right foot
- 1 ankle with pulled tendons (do ankles even have tendons?)
- Swelling of the protective coating of an achilles heel. Or whatever. I’m numb by now. And it ain’t the wine talking either.
Not to mention the 100’s of bloody socks due to blisters on top of blisters. And that’s nothing compared to some of the other kids’ injuries. I’m thinking Chess Team is in order. What’s the worst that could happen? The Knight could drop on her finger and chip a nail? I’ll take my chances. And I may actually live longer.