Yesterday, Jake and I went to the Puyallup fair - a big-time carnival in a small town. After riding the sky ride and playing carnival games, I regressed to my teenage years. I chatted to Jake a mile a minute about how many rides I'd been on (the zipper, ring of fire, and the octopus) and demanded he win me a stuffed animal.
When I was twelve the carnival seemed like the ideal place to pick up a boy. Every summer, I looked forward the neighborhood carnival like a lonely woman looks forward to speed dating. Who could I meet? Spiked haired Tommy, shaved head Joey, or maybe someone to make my parents mad - a bad-boy with pierced ear. We'd meet at the fair, then he'd win me a stuffed animal, followed by a ferris wheel smooch at sunset.
To me, the summer carnival was the place to pick up boys, followed by the arcade. Pathetic, I know. Back then I was more likely to be recruited by the freak show than find a boyfriend.
As I walked around the carnival this year, I noticed girls walking hand-in-hand with their boyfriends, giant stuffed animals in tow. At one time, I longed to be them. Now I wonder how many teenage pregnancies are caused by after-carnival lovin? Has to be at least 9 or 10 a year.
Sigh.
I'm no longer delusional and thoughts of carnival romance faded with time. I look at Jake, happy he's not a meth-head carnie or a pierced bad boy. We're just us. I don't need him to win me a stuffed animal because now I can buy one. But the ferris wheel kiss? Everything I thought it would be.
