In which I nearly perish of exposure, continue to hate a celebrated Chinese invention

I really, really hate fireworks.

I'm not sure when it started or why, but all I know is that fireworks bore me. They're loud, yes. They're also very shiny and in recent years increasingly colorful, but instead of being filled with a sense of wonder and joy I take pictures without any real interest and muse (silently, as this is obviously an indoor thought) about how really, lots of fireworks just look like day-glo sperm. I went to Chicago to spend the Fourth of July and instead of watching the fireworks over the lake I spent it curled up in my friend's apartment reading manga and messing with her cats -- it owned.

So suffice it to say I was less than totally freakin' thrilled when my father's best friend's daughter (we'll call her BFF Offspring) came to me and exclaimed, "Linda! Guess what! I have tickets to a fireworks display an hour away from our apartment! Won't this be awesome?" to which I said, "Uh," since saying, "I would rather have all of my teeth pulled with auto pliers without anesthesia" probably would have made her cry. Make no mistake, BFF Offspring is awesome, and probably my best friend in China for various and sundry reasons, but her ability to take subtle hints ("You know, I really hate fireworks," I said; "Don't worry! It'll be great! We'll have such a great time!" she replied) is not one of them. My hangdog expression in place, I sucked it up last night and schlepped myself out to watch the sky have orgasms.

The show started almost an hour and a half late, by which point the venti mocha (BFF Offspring: "Wow! I didn't even know they made coffees that big.") had made its way through all my pleasure centers and to my bladder, which was on DEFCOM 5 and seriously pissed about it. Chinese people, being fond of tormenting the proletariat, obviously, had scheduled some kind of horrendous musical thing before the fireworks started, and I watched a middle-aged comrad march around the stage with his arms at right angles singing songs nobody had been forced to listen to outside of Chinese prison camps in two decades as the crowd booed and demanded refunds for their tickets (don't ask, I don't even know) for the American, South Korean, Spanish international fireworks competition. Did I also mention it was effing freezing? No? It was effing freezing. If I was a guy, I'd be sterile now.

"Ha ha," BFF Offspring laughed. "Do you want to give up and go home?"

"GOD," I said, stuffing my camera into my bag with numb fingers. "YES."

She grabbed my arm, achoring me to our white plastic lawn chair hell. "I was just kidding," she whined. "Let's just wait another ten minutes." I reminded her she'd said that to me forty minutes ago, and then I told her that if we were in America, and that I knew all my fluid profanity in Chinese, she'd probably be in tears and we would so not be friends anymore, and you know, it says a lot about how she has a good soul, because she just laughed and said, "You're such a kidder, Linda."

The fireworks did start, eventually, after some fits and starts, and everybody ooed and ahhed and talked about how loud! and bright! and colorful! and fireworky! they were.

And me? I still really, really, really hate fireworks -- only now, I'll always think of them in connection with nearly dying of exposure.