This may seem a little off topic, but still.
So, in the period that you have been sitting here reading a couple blogs, I was dragged off of the couch by my over-enthusiastic father to go hop on my mountain bike and roam the mountainous, windy, bumpy streets of the small town in which I reside.
I was, understandably, a bit miffed.
My dad seems to be more of the kid than I am and he is impossibly stubborn when he wants to be! Like a small child, he always manages to worm his way into things and somehow manages gets his way. Don’t tell him I said that…
I was busy thinking about what I should post about next after dinner, when my oh-so-stubborn father exclaims enthusiastically, “Hey, we should go get popsicles at the Market!”
I grumbled about it, forced my brain out of my laptop screen, pulled on some biking shorts and a light jacket, and we headed down the hilly small town in the direction of the little market in the complex down the streets and to the left.
My town is a hilly suburb town. I happen to live in the heights, or the hills, so as we rushed down into the wind, all I could think about was pedaling back up this monster, before I gave up being grumpy and whooped and hollered down that hill.
Sometimes its good to be out and free with a change of scenery.
Adrenaline took over the logical part of my brain, obviously.
We passed the guy who’s ‘missing a piece’ as Dad likes to put it. We swooped into the very small parking area and park our bikes outside.
Our bikes are safe without a lock- in this little complex there is a bike shop, a liquor store, and a Mexican Market with killer awsome popsicles.
The market has a small wooden statue of a squat little person with a sombrero outside of its door- as you walk in, the door jingles and makes a beeping noise that makes you jump, and walk a little quicker.
It is a cramped little market with a small desk to pay at with a display of cheesy movies on the side rack. Aisles of snack food mixed with many other things-
The aroma of fresh Mexican food from the left is great, but my Dad and I have headed to the right to a small cooler tucked by the window- the selection of popsicles is looking a bit sparse, and it has frost on the plastic wrapper, but it’s okay.
Dad always has the habit of picking a strange flavor of popsicle and then eating it with a grimace (I don’t see the his logic with his strange habits).
Some flavors he’s gotten? Well, the cucumber-jalepeno mix in a popsicle says it all.
Anyway, as we open the slide-open cooler, a puff of cold air trickles through the air.
Dad and I end up sitting at the small, round faded red tables with rickety stools- Dad eating a mango-mixed-with-some-unknown-food, and me eating a refreshing watermelon.
I hate to bite into really hard, cold popsicles, because of my sensitive teeth, but my curly-haired-dad bites right into his orange and green looking popsicle. Orange and green!
He grimaces (as he always does).
“Augh, this mango has some sort of spicy-“, he smacks his lips, “-aftertaste!”
“No wonder there were so many extras in there!” he looks at the forlornly half-finished popsicle.
I smirk at him.
“Mine tasted like watermelon!” I say deadpan, holding up my ruby red, sweet watermelon.
He puts up a valiant fight in eating the mysteriously spicy popsicle, before giving in to its awfulness and throwing the remaining fourth of the popsicle into the trash.
As I sit and finish mine (I’m not throwing away my popsicle), my unpredictable father explores the cramped aisles of the store-
When he comes back, he buys the widest, biggest tortillas I have ever seen in my life.
After he buys them, I prefer not to tell him that we didn’t bring anything (like a bag) to hold the tortillas in, and that we have to bike home.
“What do I do to the tortillas?” he asks, raising his eyebrows in a kid like manner of worry. He looks at them as though they will shrink so he could put them in his pocket or something.
He ends up holding them in his shirt in his zipped up jacket (to my disgust).
We ended up going uphill into the cold wind (in which I severely under-dressed), but it was worth it when we got home, breathless in the brisk air, laughing, the sun setting outside with the blazing sun.
The point of my ranting story?
Expand your horizon. Laugh. Its the little things that matter.
Yes, this may be a less formal ‘observation’, that seems more like a story, but it says something. And its my blog. So there.