Monday, April 13, 2009

I Was Wrong. Easter Isn't Creepy. It's Just...Way Too Hard.

I am at a perpetual disadvantage when it comes to holidays. My immediate family selected the four furthest points of the globe and promptly moved there, and we were never big holiday people to begin with. My sticking point is Thanksgiving, but I also struggle with the greater meaning of Easter. (It's about Jesus and bunnies, right?)

My complete Easter ineptitude burst forth yesterday afternoon. I was down in The WB, Eastering among old friends. Somehow, at age 32, I was roped into my first ever Easter Egg hunt.

This is the sort of thing I am normally extraordinarily good at. If I say the keys are buried in your pocket, that you're sitting on your plane ticket, or that your credit card is at the third, not fourth, bar of the evening? I’m probably right. I can find anything for you in fifteen minutes or less, and all it will cost is one victory lap of the living room.

But throw in some hard-boiled eggs and pastel dye, and I lose the plot. Ask me to wander around the front yard of a home I’ve been visiting for 17 years, and seek my fortune, and I will find…one egg. Out of sixteen. (At least I was competing against fellow adults. Being creamed by ankle-biters would have been even worse.)

I imagine it was like watching a horror movie. “No, you stupid twit, DON’T GO UP THE STAIRS! You don’t need to know what that noise was. LEAVE! LEAVE NOW!” Except it was more like, “Please, for the love of kittens and rainbows, stop walking past that turquoise egg. Look to the left. IT’S IN THE TREE BRANCH YOU RIDICULOUS FOOL!!!!!”

How bad was it? One of my competitors, who had begun the hunt by trying to trip me, kept tossing his (many) eggs into my basket. That’s right, folks, I got pity eggs.

At least other aspects were much easier. I can totally sit down at a table and eat. And I could easily mock the baby in his bunny ears. (I think most infant wardrobe items exist to prevent the child from getting a date until college, when he moves far away from family photo albums.)

But I think that next time, I’m going to have to feign an allergy to dyes, selective amnesia...or maybe just throw myself onto the ground and weep.


Anonymous said...

Pity eggs are way worse than pity sex. At least with pity sex you get laid. I am sorry to hear your misfortune.

Shannon said...

JP - Well, considering the pity eggs came from my friend's husband, I'm sure they're better than pity sex. Far less Montel/Springer of us.

Malnurtured Snay said...

I don't know, I got nothin'. OTOH, yesterday at work, a guy cross-dressed as a cheerleader asked me to take his photo, so, fuck it, I did. His disposable camera. Gotta love this city.

Zipcode said...

Did you get any prizes though?
You should have stopped at Satans grocery store and messed with him since you were in the hood yesterday haha.

Shannon said...

Snay - Hrm...well, still less creepy than an Easter Bunny.

Zip - The eggs were the prizes. I think. How do these hunt things work, anyway?

lacochran said...

Next year? Bring eggs with you.

Happy to help.

Dave said...

My wife tried to explain to my 7 year old son the "true meaning of Easter," with Christ rising from the grave and so forth. My son listened and then asked,
"You mean, like zombies?"

Shannon said...

Lacochran - Ha! Except the dad does an inventory, so if I turned up with extra eggs it would be highly suspicious.

Dave - Jesus eats BRAINS?

Patty Duke said...

Unless the eggs are plastic with dollars bills in them, I dont't want to play.

♥♥♥♥♥ Jennifer™® ♥♥♥♥♥ said...
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
Gilahi said...

Eggs - Easter

Egg nog - Christmas

Somebody didn't think this through.

Tina said...

an adult easter egg hunt?? What was in the eggs - ciggaretts, alcohol and porn? I mean really - you have weird friends.

Shannon said...

Gilahi - I know! The eggs spoil by December, then you can't use them in the nog. Maybe egg hunts ought to happen during Thanksgiving.

Tina - Nah, we looked for actual, dyed, hard-boiled eggs. I'm guessing it's required until the baby is old enough to hunt for eggs, at which time the egg-hunt torch will be passed to the next generation.