It took a few days of reflection, but I’ve concluded there are both glaring differences and striking similarities between lots of things. Some examples include jet skis and motorcycles; shirts and body paint; people with cameras and people with cameras; sitting at the beach and sitting by the pool; and men wearing socks and men wearing socks. For my 14 loyal readers out there, you know that last week was our third trip to Fantasy Fest, a week long party in Key West Florida. What a blast.
I have written about our first Fantasy Fest before—how Dan researched it for two years prior, and as I’d walk past the computer and catch images of people in paint or wearing next to nothing, my comment was always the same: “If you expect me to wear something like THAT you are sadly mistaken.” After this year, I realize that somewhere in the great internetosphere, some wife is possibly looking at photos of me and saying the same thing. But I am getting ahead of myself…
For the Loyal 14, you’ll recall that in a previous post I wrote about my love of roller coasters and high speeds. While I wanted to do it last year, we never seemed to find the time to take a jet ski around the island. And while I mentioned it several times over the winter, I can’t say that Dan yelped with excitement. So when I stopped at a booth to inquire on price and availability, I looked at Dan, and he had the same plastic smile I’ve seen several dozen times down in Disneyworld as we’d queue for a coaster. And as I did on those occasions, I smiled back and charged ahead.
We arrived at the dock, were given some brief instructions (Dan was driving—he has a sport bike—how hard can this be?) and we were launched. Everything was fine until we started to move. The jet ski seemed to veer to the right on its own. Dan would slow down and correct, then veer again. Falling behind our tour group Dan would accelerate only to suddenly veer left or right. His cursing started off soft, but grew ever louder. He was now carpeting the Key West harbor with F-bombs, screaming that he wanted to return to the dock. Thankfully our guide stopped after about 10 minutes to see how everyone was doing. Dan piped up that he’d love to return to the dock and get on a motorcycle. The guide said this: “Leaning does nothing. Speed is your friend. It goes wherever you point the handlebars.” Dan said later that those same instructions on his high center of gravity V-4 Sabre would allow you to taste the wonder of God’s gravel and pavement.
The rest of the trip smoothed. Pretty soon I was hanging on tight and squealing with delight as we bombed over the waves at well over 40 mph. The trip was over way too soon.
That was also on Plaid Tuesday. The day I had decided to get body paint on my upper body (gulp). My skimpy costumes of the previous nights included items that kept me safely covered. At the appointed time we jumped on our bicycles and headed to the paint shop. Most painters are located next to the sidewalk. My painter, Frankie, was located away from the street, but not behind a closed door. In a moment of truth I had to take off my shirt (double gulp). Leaning does nothing. Speed is your friend. It goes wherever you point the handlebars. For the next hour I sat topless as Frankie applied one color after another, working to match the plaid shirt that Dan was wearing. A finishing spray of light lacquer and Frankie was done. He signed his work, took a photo for his album, and I was walking toward a packed Duvall Street wearing shorts, socks and gym shoes. And it was fine.
Looking at the pictures, I was more covered by paint than I was or would be by clothes at several other parties. Which brings me to people with cameras.
There is etiquette at Fantasy Fest when it comes to people with cameras. Here is our version of the rules:
1.) You compliment the person on their costume or paint
2.) You always ask if you can take a picture
3.) You snap the photo of the whole person—no zooming
4.) You thank the person for the photo
5.) You must be in costume/paint to ask for or take a photo
These people can take my picture all night. It’s quite flattering to be a 54-year-old mom of two and to be asked for and to be in lots of pictures—often with other partiers half my age. And then there are The Creepers.
These men are usually white, obese and alone, with high-end cameras and big lenses being used at close range. They: 1.) Step in front of you so you can’t get past
2.) Snap away without asking, confident that neither your chin nor navel will be in the frame
3.) Follow you around if they don’t get what they want
4.) They don’t wear a costume
I put up with it at first, but it got old. One memory: In Capt. Tony’s one night, a creeper would not take my repeated turning away as “No.” He kept trying to get his shot. Dan, sensing my discomfort, did what any Midwesterner would do. He set down his drink, reached out his right hand, and introduced himself. I only saw it from the back, but Dan, smiling, stood there for five to ten seconds, and then released his handshake, turned around and picked up his drink. The creeper said nothing, but turned and left. Only later did Dan admit what happened. There are advantages to lifting heavy things all the time. You can administer a crushing handshake while never losing your smile. Late that week, Dan had painted on his back “Next year I’m coming as a creepy fat guy with a camera and no costume.” He got a lot of compliments.
And then there is the beach. We sat on the Southernmost beach for a few hours pretty much every day. It is a top optional beach and I absorbed a winter’s worth of Vitamin D. Fletcher, the man who runs the beach and takes care of the beach chairs, will bring around frozen strawberries or frozen towels or put beads on the ladies’ heads or just stop to chat and it’s just natural. Back at the pool by our condo, had something happened to my top I’d be grabbing for a towel. Yes, private pool is on the list for next year.
Lastly, socks. There is an icon on that same beach that we call Sock Man. He’s been there for years. Buff, tan, and wearing a hat and a sock on a string (but only one and not on his feet). As best we can tell, it’s his only job. I don’t really have an analogy to other men in socks—I guess he just popped into my mind.
