Anatomy of a Beer Festival

I sat down today to attempt to write a blog entry about the beer festival I went to in St. Louis this weekend, but as with so many times I sit down to write blog entries about things that seem perfect fodder for blog entries, I drew a blank.

Once upon a time (this weekend), I visited a friend from high school, her husband, and their baby.  I drove up Saturday morning.  We drank a lot of beer (well, the baby didn’t).  I drove home the next day. The end.

That is not a great story.

Here is something slightly more interesting:

Once upon a time (this weekend), I visited a friend whom I always refer to as “a friend from high school,” though I don’t know why because we’ve known each other since elementary school.

She has a lot of legitimately shitty things to complain about, but she manages to truthfully and straightforwardly discuss her life without ever seeming to feel sorry for herself.  This is a quality I admire immensely and would like to emulate.

When I first got there, the baby took one look at me walking in the door and started to cry, and then continued to stare suspiciously at me the rest of the trip any time I was within eyesight.

Saturday night, when a whole group of us had reconvened at the house after the beer drinking, one woman got a migraine and got sick, but her husband shrugged it off and refused to go help her (Husband:  “She’ll be fine”  My friend [horrified]:  “Shouldn’t you go hold her hair?”  Husband:  “You go hold her hair.  I’ll hold her boobs.”).  This was accepted as reasonable behavior by most of the people (male) there to witness it.  Because people are awful to each other.

I didn’t want to get drunk so I didn’t get drunk.  That, in and of itself, is newsworthy:  I went a beer festival and did not overindulge.

When I got back to my apartment yesterday evening, it was devastatingly and beautifully quiet.

(The end.)