 I was part of the rapt audience in Freedom Hall at the Kentucky State Fair yesterday, all of whom paid good money to listen to a certain Southern family sit up on stage and tell a few funny stories over about an hour and a half.
Yep, I am one of thousands of obsessed fans of the hit reality show, Duck Dynasty, and I am not ashamed to admit it. QUACK! A friend turned me onto it last year, and I quickly became enamored of the Robertson family. I have not laughed that hard at a TV show since the Cosby kids were on NBC on Thursday nights in the 1980s. If I loved this silly show before I saw Willie, Korie, Miss Kay and Si Robertson live and in person, now I adore ‘em even more. As they each addressed the enthusiastic crowd, it was evident that not a one of them puts on a pretense or a “character” for the show. They are who they are. What you see is what you get. How friggin’ refreshing.
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 On this lovely Monday, I’m recovering from my annual trip to the mountains of Eastern Kentucky for the 28th annual Tacky Lawn Ornament & Pink Flamingo Soiree. I camped, hiked, laughed ‘til I cried, ran around in the pouring rain and got a total of about six hours of sleep in three days.
And I can’t stop smiling about it. The Soiree is a festival of sorts, except it’s not. In fact, it’s impossible to adequately explain its appeal to those who have never been to that area of Pine Mountain in Whitesburg, Ky., for this particular weekend event. It’s an invitation-only shindig, and admission is $25 and a tacky lawn ornament. Another $10 will get you the event’s T-shirt, which is quite possibly the best souvenir EVER. This year’s Soiree was unique for me for a couple of reasons. One, I made the trek without my usual camping buddy for the first time — my wingman, my BFF, Whitney. And two, this is the first year in which my one and only vice was caffeinated iced tea.  If you don’t know how to do something, find someone who does. Then ask that person for help.
This sounds ridiculously simple, I know, but it took me a lifetime to learn. Asking for help is uncomfortable for many — probably even most — grown folk. I used to believe that it was a very unattractive sign of weakness. I needed help, therefore I was needy. If I was not totally independent, then I was dependent, and that made me a lesser person. To truly earn the badge of adulthood, I had to know all the answers. Or some such bullshit. Thank God I came to my senses. I’ve been on a journey of self-discovery in recent years, and one of the key tenets of that journey has been learning humility. When I started my process of reinvention five years ago, it was pointed out to me that my self-concept had historically swung from one extreme to the other, sometimes on a daily basis. I was either up on my self-righteous high horse, better than everyone around me, or I was a piece of garbage hell bent on self-flagellation. There was no in between. (Turns out that the “in between” is where serenity lies.)  I wrote last week about my proclivity for organization and planning. But for some reason, the act of arranging activities to celebrate my July 31 birthday sucked the life out of me.
Usually, my birthday — and all that it implies — is the highlight of my year. I am a Leo after all, and it’s the only day when my overly inflated ego is justified, accepted and even expected. A whole day all about me? Well, hell yes. In fact, let’s make it a week! I’ve been kind of blah about the whole deal-io this year. First of all, 41 is not a milestone and doesn’t warrant any particular fanfare. Plus I don’t have anyone in my life who is obligated to fawn over me. I am single, and my son is (technically) grown. His priorities do not include making sure his momma feels properly feted on her birthday. The big day fell on Wednesday this year, so planning something suitably celebratory wasn’t feasible. I scheduled a relaxing facial with a lovely friend who recently enrolled in cosmetology school, and then she took me to lunch. I had cleared my work calendar and basically took the day off, which was a welcome luxury. If the weather had been nice, you can bet your sweet arse I would have been at the pool. |
About Amy HiggsA former newspaper columnist, Amy takes her random, slice-of-life stories to the web. After 12 years, she's still just saying. Archives
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