Certain activities lend themselves to an atmosphere of redneckishness: go cart racing, pool, waiting in an empty supermarket parking lot at 10:30 pm while your boyfriend pees on a dumpster. I have partipicated in all of these today.
Beau, Mistress, Boy Toy and I ventured out to Braintree this evening to visit F1 Boston, the only go cart track in the general vicinity to the best of my knowledge. It was only a matter of time before we ended up there, considering Beau drives an Audi TT and Mistress' parents are both racecar drivers. Today was that fortuitous day.
Though once infamous for reckless driving, I've tamed in my road attitude. Now I'm more inclined to nag Beau into observing a 35 mph speed limit than pass in the shoulder, but that wasn't always the case. Having been raised in glorious NJ, I was once what one might call "a Jersey driver" in the sense that I was comfortable going 90 mph on the turnpike while rocking a Jersey sweep (for those not in the know, a Jersey sweep refers to a particularly dangerous driving maneuver in which one is stuck in the left lane behind a slow driver and moves to the middle lane to pass only to find a slow driver there too requiring a move to the far right lane to complete a pass before swerving all the way back to the left lane all in one clean movement at a minimum of 70 mph).
Beau pumped up my Jersey driver status before arriving at F1 saying that my newfound paranoia would be overruled once I found myself behind the wheel again. I maintained I would spend my time on the racetrack in the right lane going a reasonable speed with my blinker going. Let's just guess who was right, as always. Like I've said, it's a curse.
We arrived at the hanger-cum-racetrack shortly before the other couple. It gave us time to watch the incoming crowds of teenagers and mullet clad adults. We became increasingly concerned upon seeing a group of 40something men wearing personalized racing gear. "I'm not going to wear a race suit, right?" was all I could squeak out before the others arrived. After registering, paying and signing a waiver promising we weren't drunk and/or wouldn't sue them if we lost a limb on their premises, we were ushered into a closet where we were presented with a rack of orange jump suits. Now, I understand the need for shared bowling shoes, but I draw the line at communal clothing. Having already paid, Beau ignored my horror stricken face and shoved me towards the clothes rack where I selected a size larger than I'd like to admit because these hips don't lie and they also don't fit into ANYTHING.
We viewed a brief safety video that I don't recall because I spent the entire time poking Mistress and telling her she looked like a giant condom in her "head sock" (also communal). Soon, we were ushered out to the track where I was pleased to see I had been assigned to the 2nd car in the line up. A ha. I had an edge on the others. Had. Past tense. Very past tense.
Within seconds of leaving the gate on our practice lap the first stranger passed me. I was content to floor my souped up lawn mower on the straight aways and brake going around the corners. Screw you guys. I'm responsible now. But despite my conscientious driving, some asshole hit me going through the Z-turn, causing his car to spin out and my car to come to a complete halt against his. I looked up through the visor of my super sexy helmet to make eye contact with Beau who was clearly pleased with himself.
Needless to say, I have official paperwork declaring myself the worst driver in the bunch. I ranked 10th place out of 10. That includes the old woman who beat my ass by at least 15 seconds. The race was long over when I pulled across the finish line.
As a consolation prize, I earned cheap drinks and a few games of pool. Halfway through my first loss, it occurred to me that I’m just not cut out for some low brow activities despite my penchant for hard liquor and rowdiness. Though I carried the Beau/DK team during game #2, it seemed the odds were stacked against me. Could it be that, in fact, I ain’t no red neck woman?!
We came back to Suburbia for dinner and drinks which were generally uneventful despite frightening a wholesome looking couple at the next table over with a loud discussion involving strap-ons. A pleasant evening was passed until we walked back to the Boy Toys car where Beau declared himself physically incapable of waiting any longer to take a wiz. He rounded a corner of the nearest building while we courteously waited outside in the accumulating snow until it seemed that too many minutes had passed.
“What? Is he crapping back there?” I asked which sent Mistress running around the corner to confirm, no, he was indeed not pooping in a parking lot.
We’re home safe now where Beau is happily sleeping and I am nursing my last rumncoke of the evening and contemplating showering and burning any of my personal possessions that may have come in contact with something referred to as a “head sock.”
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