I'm not one for fireworks. Lights and crashing booms from on-high don't get my blood pumping. It could have something to do with the mosquitoes or neck cricks or possibly that every brightly colored explosion reminds me of dandelions and gruff shouts to quit seeding the yard. Not precisely sure, but however you look at it, fireworks don't do it for me.
That said, I have no Earthly idea how I wound up volunteering to bring them to the picnic this past Saturday. Yet as I traversed the two hundred miles to meet up with distant family with my bug-spray in hand and a large comforter, I found myself peculiarly unsettled to have them in my trunk. And wondering at my insanity.
What fully aware, relatively intelligent woman packs a gas tank loaded metal box with explosives and then locks herself inside at eighty miles per hour? Clearly my relatives are far more intelligent than I because they convinced me it had sound merit. I have nothing for my defense except to say that should I have gone up in twisted metal flames, it would have been a stunningly colorful and loud display.
Which leads me to my next thought. Why not arrange for my final services to be done at night with fireworks? Or perhaps allow myself to be cremated after I have L vow to stuff a "fountain" down my throat? I think I'd like to go out with a bang some day.
Note to self: "Mia, draft a new will post haste."