Another Washout

It’s 9am on Sunday. My eyes feel like sandpaper, and my body feels like the Tin Woodsman’s before Dorothy plies his joints with oil. I’ve spent the last two V-E-R-Y L-O-N-G days primarily sitting under a nylon canopy in the rain. Or the wind. Or the rain and wind. Hoping to sell delicious pastries to festival patrons...who were all smart enough to remain in their nice, warm, DRY family rooms eating chips, drinking beer and watching football. When I’m not cozying up to one of my pieces of equipment trying to get warm, I’m running around in a frenzy trying to keep said pieces of equipment from being drowned in the torrents of water that periodically sloosh down from the top of the canopy when the rain collects to the point of overflowing. In approximately one hour, I will have to drag myself out to the festival grounds for another seven hours of that, and then spend an hour and a half trying to pack the soaking wet shreds of my business into the van and trailer without killing myself. And then a two-hour, damp, drizzly drive home. Are we having fun yet?