Car-ni-val

The Nativity Carnival is an institution. It comes once a year, and has for the last twenty-eight years (or, so says the recycled poster I have grown so fond of). Anyhow, I am afraid that the older my eyes get, the more they look at the squeaky iron rides with worry instead of excitement. And when I bought my boys cotton candy, all I could think of was Templeton running free at the fair in Charlotte's Web. I had to keep telling myself to be fun, "Be fun, Angie, not a kill-joy...well, try...smile...laugh" But, alas, the "fun" house, was nothing like the "I got chills, they're multiplyin' " experience Sandy and Danny knew in the Greese end-of-school carnival extravaganza. Even black leather pants and the jumpingest hand-jive with the carnies-themselves, wouldn't have distracted me from the need that never ceased...Purell. And thank goodness for the bath I took in it when we left the carnival. Oh, and for the record, we passed on the ferris wheel...but only because I'm not thirteen and making out with my twelve year-old boyfriend.