Saturday, five couples in my Sunday night small group drove to a historic canal town called "Metamora," known for streets lined with touristy shops and a 19th Century German heritage, for a bout of holiday fun. And by golly, we just a-bout had some fun. Just kidding, we did have fun. And now I'm going to have fun at their expense. (Because they secretly love for me to razz them. So this post will be like a Christmas present. They're welcome.)
First, the van Jorge and I rode in belongs to one of my very best friends (Hi,"L"!) which was fun because three couples fit in easily. But the problem was, (Hi, "L"! Loved the new sweater!) there was some sort of mechanical problem with the van, which caused it to roar like a dragster, except it wasn't a muffler sound, so it was also kind of a buzz, like you were sitting one foot away from a 12-foot box fan. (Hey, "L"! Still friends?)
But nothing could discourage my anticipation of the shopping, the twinkling lights and carolers we would enjoy once we got there. So, you know. I made the best of it: "Oh what fun it is to ride in a buzzing, roaring sleigh!"
Metamora, a little berg settled by German Catholics in the 1800's, is about 2 hrs from home, and we took a scenic route that wound and wound and wound. Luckily, I had taken a motion sickness pill before we left, because it could have been disastrous. Can you imagine being nauseated with the roar of a tornado in your ear for two hours? And that was just my two friends in the back seat talking! Plus, I had the roar of the tires or whatever that was.
We arrived and immediately came upon a life-sized creche that was just waiting there for us to fill in the people roles. Since we are quite a dignified bunch, we piled in there like it was a subway car. There was a mechanical donkey and camel and cow, with stacks of straw and an empty manger, but we managed to cram ourselves into the scene like clowns in a tiny clown car. Don't you wonder what the Lord thinks when he watches scenes like that? I don't think I want to know.
Anyway, we walked from one little outdoor shop to another in probably 30-degree weather with a little sleet thrown in for fun. I had two shirts on, one was fleece, and leggings under my jeans. Can I just say that the thin layer of leggings made my jeans fit much more snugly, and I felt like I was in a fat suit all evening.
But, hey! Who cares about fashion when you're looking at the world's largest collection of dusty old cookie jars, including one of each of the whole Star Wars cast, with the Darth Vader jar having light-up eyes?
Or who cares about freezing when you're in a fudge shop where girls wear tacky Santa suits of red crushed velvet and nasty white/yellowed matted fur around the plunging neckline and mid-thigh skirt? Who cares if they are bare-legged in high heels? Why should I whine about my padded butt when those girls are suffering behind the counters in mandatory head-to-toe skankwear?
I just had to watch myself (my "hinder", as the Germans probably say) to make sure I didn't break baubles when I made my way sideways through those tiny little shops.
I have to say, Jorge did really well, attitude-wise during this trip, which is quite an accomplishment because he does not care for "over the top" anything, especially Christmas. As my friend Cindy noted, instead of Santa Claus, he's more like the "Anti-Claus."
Tune in tomorrow for the conclusion of "Metamora: Sauerkraut is the Broom of the Intestines."