Well, maybe it's not that meager. I'm not sure whether it's age, a chocolate addiction or an inability to resist visiting the kitchen when I'm reading/watching TV/finished with dinner/bored/alone/avoiding someone/tired/happy/ or depressed...but my new bra is a 36B. Anyone who has struggled to fill a 32A for their entire lives can appreciate that statement. The rest of you can just skip ahead and refrain from any comments. And no, there are NO PHOTOS. I've gotta draw the line somewhere.
Besides the aforementioned chocolate craving, after twenty years I'm still in love with our annual Balloon Races. I'll cheerfully sacrifice sleeping in on a weekend. I'll happily get in the early morning darkness year after year. The Balloon Races only happen once a year and are my absolute favorite special event here. Better than the Rib Cookoff. Better than Hot August Nights. Better by far than (yuck) Street Vibrations.
This year I realized that a "balloon race" is a bit of a misnomer. A hot air balloon races about as fast as a tortoise does although with a lot more style points for color and grace. I think it's possible I have more balloon photos than pictures of my children and my dog combined. They are so colorful (the balloons, not my kids) and the process of inflating the envelope is so magical (although inflating the pup would be interesting too if I got mad enough at her which will never ever happen no matter what she digs up). I get on that field with a hundred balloons around me and my camera seems to take photos all by itself.
Imagine listening to flight themes like Superman and Star Wars and Close Encounters softly playing in the coolness of a September dawn while color and life slowly blossoms around you.
I love this place.
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