Our town in New Jersey is small enough that the mayor often comes to events wearing a windbreaker. I think mayors should only be seen in suits, but understand that people want their politicians to be “folksy” these days. As a result, we had an elected official with bedhead kick-off the annual Easter egg hunt.
Egg hunt is a misleading term. A hunt suggests that the eggs are hidden (or, more accurately, fleeing a predator). No one should hunt an egg; they don’t move on their own, and are pathetically defenseless. Anyone who comes to an Easter egg hunt in full camouflage is either hilarious, or going home in a straight jacket. I understand, though, that “egg find” doesn’t have much zing.
What we attended on Sunday was an egg pick-up. That sounds more like community service than jolly holiday fun. The outfield of a baseball diamond was covered with 400 plastic eggs, a scene, which from space, probably looked like an immense sheet of cold medicine. An army of toddlers gathered on the starting line, waiting for William Wallace to scream something about freedom. From a distance, it appeared that one of them had a bayonet, and another a canon, but upon closer examination, they were each just holding imaginative baskets (we live in an “artistic” community).
The mayor yawned, blew his whistle, and the field succumbed to a screaming human vacuum that cleared the eggs in less than two minutes. And that was the end; it was a snappy harvest this year. Our boys came away with around eight eggs each. Only Silas had a proper basket. Poor Arlo was forced to settle with a stretchy nylon purse of his mother’s, which I held for him by its frilly ribbon.
“Would anyone like a beautiful pastel egg from my dainty satchel? They have Tootsie Rolls in them!” Being a man is so emasculating.
The hunt was supposed to be the day’s activity. The answer to “Ugh, what the hell are we doing on Sunday?” was, “Well, there’s the egg hunt.” I’m not sure why we thought an egg pick-up would take a whole day; by 1:07pm we had nothing left to do.
Luckily, the neighbors were hosting a family reunion which we crashed. The mayor, I hope, was taking a long spring nap.Buy My Book! Indiebound
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