I never claim that I’m mature, but nothing turns me into a bigger child than going to the fair.
My brother and I plan to go together this year, for the first time in a few years. My husband asked what we planned to do there, and when I started listing all the things I got really excited. I’m talking jumping-up-and-down excited.
The Tilt-a-Whirl is always first – that’s just how it is. You can’t mess with tradition. The Tilt-a-Whirl has always been first. Most of my favourite rides seem to be the ones that go in a circle, like the Tilt-a-Whirl, the Polar Express and the Gravitron. You couldn’t pay me enough to get on the death trap that is the Zipper, but I’ll go on just about anything else.
When I was little, I had to rely on my Grampa to go on rides with me. As I got older and he could go on less and less I thought perhaps my adventurous days were over. However, a few years back, my previously reluctant brother began to go on most of the rides I enjoy (the only rule is “no upside down”) and my faith in life was restored.
I require Whack-a-Mole. I don’t mean that I like to play it, I mean that I require it. I like bashing those smug little bastards on their faces with the padded stick. I like to watch their little plastic faces cowering in fear from my might. I also like when the light flashes and spins and goes “WEE OOO” and the inevitably dirty and/or high attendant hands me a plastic animal that clearly cost less to make than I paid for the game…it’s glorious.
Fair food has just the right amount of grease to dirt ratio. Food that anywhere else is questionable is suddenly delicious. A dead fly or two becomes acceptable. Weirdly-shaped crap that’s been melting tastes like gourmet.
These days there’s also that whole “deep fry everything” mentality and I wish I could say I never gave in but have you ever eaten a deep fried Oreo? I can’t in good conscience recommend it, but holy yum.
A couple years back, the guy running the Whack-a-Mole station, while taking my money, started flipping out. “Your eyes are so green!” he exclaimed. “Hey, look how green her eyes are! They’re so green! They’re so intense!” I began to suspect he might be under the influence, because, you see, my eyes are brown. Dark, chocolaty (or poopy) brown. My eye shadow was green, though. I hope the poor guy didn’t have nightmares.
I will always remember eating cotton candy on the drive home the day after the local fair, while I tried not to cry because we were leaving Grammie and Grampa’s house after yet another summer. The nostalgia may be the most important reason to go. That, and the Whack-a-Mole…those smug little bastards.