[I’m sure I’m going to “H-E-double hockey sticks,” as my grandma used to say when I wasn’t supposed to know swear words, for writing this post. So you don’t need to remind me…]
It’s Easter weekend. While lots of churches exist on the island, as far as I can tell, the “resurrection” seems to more accurately describe the number of the egg hunts occurring in a 48-hour period.
I don’t remember lots of egg hunts from my childhood. I mainly remember hunting around the family room bookcase as a perfunctory duty before diving into a hollow chocolate bunny. I’m sure great egg hunts must have happened, but I
was just watching H.R. Pufnstuf instead don’t recall, such was the impression they made.
On Bainbridge Island, however, my lucky child has options. And, oh, what a build-up we’ve had for the excitement, the thrills, the, yes, SUGAR!
And this is where the sex part enters to mirror egg hunts. Or at least the standard approach to getting sex when you’re young and single. I mean, really, married people aren’t actually having sex so they’re exempt from this analysis.
But for those frisky, adult, unattached singles, hunting down a sex life is remarkably similar to the bajillion egg hunts I’ve witnessed this weekend.
And it’s not just me
and my filthy mind, come on, people…eggs…bunnies…”mad as a March hare.” Look it up. This whole season is all about. . .fertile soil, and by fertile soil, I don’t mean fertile soil. If you’re not off praying for my doomed soul yet, here’s a breakdown of similarities between egg hunts for kids and bar cruising socializing for grown-ups:
1. Both happen on a weekend. (Also, possibly one of those random, last-minute Thursday outings where you get lucky, but you could never count on that, could you?)
2. The hunters anticipate their hunt for days. Maybe longer if your parents talk it up ahead of time (we’re talking about the egg hunt at this point, although perhaps your parents did talk up sex to you; I don’t know but I am not about to sort out your weird childhood
unless you’ll do mine for me).
3. Pre-planning and strategizing with your team are necessary components. Like how to attack the scene, who to avoid, and what type of loot to aim for (eggs with candy versus another stupid pencil or someone weak you can separate from the herd and get drunker).
4. Once the bell goes off,
drunken chaos reigns. People crash into each other while trying to look cool. Lesser hunters, which everyone can somehow smell, get shoved aside and stronger hunters take the lead and snatch up booty with numbers that entitle them to certain prizes after the public hunt officially ends.
5. Every time, without fail, at least one person sits on the side, alone, empty handed, and crying. At least with the egg hunt, your mommy is close by to comfort you and arrange for a consolation prize. In the real world, you have to wait to call her in the morning or find your own
damn pint of Ben & Jerry’s consolation prize.
6. After it’s “mission accomplished” for the winners, the let-down begins. You wonder what was supposed to be so great about
sex or jelly beans or both, alone or together, the prize you struggled to obtain. And you might even feel so used or hungover tired of hunting, you’ll declare you will never do that again.
Right up until the next year (or next weekend, if you’re horny), when you forget everything you complained about
to your mommy to your mother and the anticipation builds all over again.
Are we all feeling, er, satisfied at the end of this weekend?!
[And, yes, still going to H-E-double hockey sticks, I know.]