I wrote this all once. But I left my desk for staff meeting and it didn’t save.
Short Version Weekend: Irishfest Friday with fun friends, Saturday cleaned house/clothes/body and Sunday I went to “relax” in Brown County, which blew up in my face.
Long Version Sunday: I should have stayed in Bloomington, reading a book (or my textbook) at a table with a nice glass of tea. But no, I felt obligated to not spend money, and exert myself in some “real” fresh air. So, I went fishing at the Lake Lemon spillaway, intending to catch a little sun and then go to Nashville for some good dinner, maybe hitting up an apple orchard on the way home. No such luck.
After my solitary snack of Boddington’s and peanuts while sitting on the ledge overlooking the spillaway, I trekked down the hill with all my fishing gear and waded far into the stream, painfully noticing my Teva’s were splitting apart and barely holding on by their velcro. I cast a few, noticing some teenage boys watching me from the ledge. I then caught my line in the weeds and proceed to save the loure, Brad Pitt/Paul MacLean style, stripping off my shorts and crashing into the armpit-deep water in my swimsuit and tank top. I did not get the loure out and had to break the line, but I still felt a little smug, climbing out off the pool, adding a different loure onto the line and getting back to the task at hand, though slightly dripping still. I looked at the boys and thought to myself, “I’ll bet they wish they had girlfriends like me. I bet they think I’m cool, with my fishing stuff. I’ll bet they like the swimsuit.”
A little later, I put the shorts back on and packed up my stuff to fish a little downstream before heading back into civilization. The guys were fishing just a few yards away, so I tried to carefully pick my path around them so as not to disturb their fishing waters. That’s when the Teva’s gave out and I fell, kersploosh, right into waist-deep, diarrhea-colored muck, my tackle box floating away. Not only did the dumb boys not laugh, or offer to help, but they didn’t even look at me. Now I’m thinking, “They’re probably thinking, ‘She’s so dumb. that’s why girls shouldn’t fish.'” I gathered up the little dignity I had left, sat in a clear pool to try and rinse the mud out of my shorts (didn’t work), and walked down the stream. I didn’t feel much like fishing anymore, but I didn’t want to walk past the boys again, so I decided to try and find the path through the woods back to my car. Didn’t find the path, but did get covered in scratches, brambles, burrs, sunburn and bites as I went. It felt like hours out there.
I finally found my car, stripped to my bikini, wrapped up in a towel and covered my seat in plastic. I looked at the damage – a wet, bloody, muddy, scratched, burnt red-and-white mess of flesh… so I knew what I had to do. Using all my strength (on a Sunday) not to scream profanities, I covered the open wounds with Sweet Pea scented anti-bacterial gel. Then I got on the road, got lost a few more times, and ended up at a CVS in Nashville, where I absolutely had to use a potty, no matter what the “no shirt, no shoes, no service” sign said. I don’t think they were in any position to disagree with a little Godzilla wrapped in a towel.
So, no good dinner, no apples, not even a fish… but I made it home after way too long, soaked in a tub, heated up some chili, and watched “Annie Hall.” It occurred to me this morning that it was much easier to go fishing when Dad drove, picked the spot, and just handed me the rod. I think as long as I’m getting manicures, this should be my last solo fishing trip for a while.