|
The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and life as I know it is coming to a screeching halt. It's that time of year again. My secret shame will now be thrust into the spotlight for all to see. Go ahead and laugh, jerks. Laugh while I cringe and die a little inside. You see, not only is my husband a redneck, he's a redneck with a hobby.
In less than 24 hours, rednecks and hillbillies alike will swarm into Chilliwack, armed with chopped up Chevys, nitrous and beer, hootin and hollerin (That's not a typo, hillbillies have no need for the letter 'g') in anticipation of going faster and getting drunker than any other hick who has lived before. And what's worse, they'll do it in mud.
Mud Drags or Mud Bogs, call it whatever you like. There's no way to pretty it up. Some people spend all year soupin up their big ole trucks, dreaming of driving through that patch of filth a little faster than the guy beside them. The wimmens (again, not a typo) are touching up their roots, scouring Wal-Mart for the perfect tank top to show off their newest tattoo of an angel with a lazy eye, and searching their closets for those hot pants that looked so cute three kids ago.
|
In preparation for this weekend's events, I have purchased three pairs of large sunglasses, two new books, extra strength migraine formula Advil, and a pedicure that was more expensive than my last gas bill. I have carefully selected the most flattering clothes in my closet and purchased what may be the cutest shoes ever. I know it's no great feat to be the prettiest girl at the mud drags, but it's all I've got, dammit.
My husband is an easy going, good natured guy. He doesn't ask much of me, so when he does request my company and support, I really shouldn't hesitate. But inside my head, a secret war is being waged. My bitchy inner voice is mocking my common sense, saying that the more races I attend, the more he'll expect my presense, and what's worse, he may even expect me to start fitting in. My common sense counters that it is just two fucking days: suck it up and go. My husband and I made an agreement when he started on this venture: If I go to two races per season, he won't nag me about my refusal to socialize with the die hards or camping out with him. In return, he'll shower before coming home from each event. It sounds like a big price to pay for something so small, but if you have ever smelled a man who spent three days driving in the mud and three nights getting shitfaced in it, you would understand. It is a very fair compromise.
Common sense wins this internal battle, as it usually does, as I believe it should. Except when pertaining to shoes. Practicality has no place in shoe shopping. While digging through the back of my closet this morning, I stumbled across a black hoodie my husband had had embroidered for me with the name of his truck. Across the back, in bold red letters, it proudly proclaims, “"Mud, Sweat and Beer." A small smile surprised me, and the dirtiest secret of all nearly knocked me off my feet. I might actually enjoy myself this weekend. But don't tell anyone, okay? I sure the hell won't. |
