And I'm (or Thought I Was) Proud to Be an American

Am I getting old?

As the years progress, I fear my youth is long behind me, and nothing makes me feel this way worse than holidays do.

I remember in my youth, I was terribly excited to wake up and see what dear ol' Santa put under our tree. My sisters and I would wake up at around, oh, 4:30 AM, and bug our parents for hours until they finally arose in what I now realize was a terrible hangover. And we'd all jump around with glee at the myriad of colorful boxes under that tall tree. Nowadays I sleep until about nine or ten, and now I, along with my parents, share the burden of the blistering hangover, and sure, the presents are great, but without Santa, now it's just my parents spoiling me, and along with that comes guilt.

All other holidays are starting to betray the strain of maturity too. On Easter, I wake up and find candy and perhaps a CD in my Easter basket, but the Easter Bunny no longer leaves little powdery pawprints on the carpet, and unfortunately for the adventurous side of me, we no longer participate in that legendary easter egg hunt (With one egg that holds five dollars! We'll be rich!). On Thanksgiving, I only rarely attend the big dinner with the family, as unfortunately, my work schedule rarely permits it. And don't get me started about Halloween; what once was an innocent night of walking around the neighborhood collecting candy has turned into a drunken blur of a night that usually involves me dressing up in women's clothing and waking up the next morning only to discover I have pissed myself and all over my bed (sorry, Pat).

Here we are, the most American of holidays, the birthday of our great and glorious nation, Independence Day, the Fourth of July. This great day used to have three very distinct and wonderful traditions I associated with:

1) The parade. The family would pack up the car with lawn chairs and breakfast foods, and we'd all traverse the mean streets of NE Philly to get to my cousins' house on Godfrey Ave., where we'd all set up along the pavement and watch in awe as the parade-walkers would stroll by, sometimes collecting money (we'd ignore them) and sometimes giving out candy (we'd jump out of our seats even before the candy hit the ground). Good times.

2) The flea market. This piece of shit little area of Lawncrest Playground would be transformed into a big party with a multitude of tents selling such items as bootlegged music, fart bombs, sand art, and last but not least, FIREWORKS. But only the shitty kind, like pops, or black cobras. Damn you Pennsylvania and your damn fucking firework laws! But good times nonetheless.

3) The big fireworks show. Again, the family would pack in the car, but this time we didn't need lawn chairs—a big sprawling comfy blanket would do. At dusk family and friends would gather, lay on the ground, and wait. And then began the show. It was glorious. The colors, the sounds, that warm fuzzy feeling you get when you see such a spectacle. The silence afterwards was incredible. It felt as if the whole world has stopped to enjoy those wonderful Lawncrest fireworks. And I would look around at friends and family and we'd nod our heads in agreement: that was FUCKING INCREDIBLE. Good times.

So what has happened to me? What is wrong with me? Why am I getting so fucking old? Today is the fucking Fourth of July and I just woke up. I missed the parade. I missed the flea market. A day that is supposed to have a distinct feel, well, feels wrong. It just feels like any normal day. This sucks.

Damn it, though, I am making a pact with myself, because all hope is not lost. There's still time! I am going to drag my ass to the Lawncrest fireworks show if it kills me. So what if I might be a little drunk? So what if I no longer will be with family? So what if we won't have a blanket? My friends and I are going to plop our asses on that Lawncrest grass, and we are going to enjoy those fireworks.

Then maybe I can prove to myself I still have a little youth left.

God Bless America.