I really got in touch with my culture and my roots this weekend--my white, white roots. Who else but white people tailgates horse races?
It was a fine time overall, if a bit chilled and soggy. And by "a bit" I mean "very." It was a bit discouraging, in fact, for actual tailgating, but we survived, didn't we?
|Yes, that's silver.|
That's setting the bar a bit low, and it's more than a little ungrateful on my part, too. My mother did a fine thing hosting us all--even if she did privilege viewing angles of the intermittent, 3-second thunderings of passing horses over socializing and mingling amongst our fellows.
While I know she tried, I also can't help but admit a little disappointment--as much in myself as anything, it's worth mentioning. It's a bone of contention I like to pick with myself that I don't press on and meet people more despite wanting to, that I don't go out and experience things genuinely as much as I'd like to. But that's another post, maybe; another battle to dissect.
In this case, it was bitter cold and sopping wet, and I was underdressed: a mere jean jacket and thin sweater separating me from the elements. Some of those things couldn't be helped (weather), some of them could (layering), and some things I might best bring up with the concerned parties for future considerations (location).
It turns out, though, that horse racing, in and of itself, does next to nothing for me. Something about 3 seconds of horse blurs every 45-60 minutes just lacks a thrill for me. Maybe if I had gotten in on the betting, I'd have felt more invested. I wouldn't not go again if invited, but I doubt I'll go out of my way seeking horse races to sate some irrepressible hunger, and I'd certainly do more mingling about, that's for sure.
|These are my people; my wacky, weird people.|
One undeniable thing, though, that can't be taken away from this little trip is the time spent with family. I don't see most of those wackos anywhere near enough, so it's great that we were able to all get together for a weekend of odd hijinks.
(On another note, my little car, Marshmallow, made it all the way down there and back. We even survived Dulles. My cousin Jill can verify that there was no cheating--I actually drove the whole way!)