I went to a free concert in the park with my sister and two fun, crazy guys (it was their idea). We swerved into SLC and into downtown, parked three blocks away and trekked uphill to the park. Spread blankets on the grass behind the rest of the audience and opened up Jimmy Johns and bags of chips (smart guys; they bought a multigrain variety for us girls).
The guys produced a cooler and opened it to reveal water bottles and fruit-flavored CapriSuns; we stifled our adult health consciousness and all reached for the juice. We broke open the straws, punched them through the juice bags, looked at each other and laughed because it was enchanting to be a little kid again for a moment.
As we ate our simple picnic dinner we became a show all to ourselves, the actual concert nothing but background noise. We chatted, joked, teased, and laughed without reservation, thoroughly enjoying ourselves even though I knew we had turned into that group of people you always hate at events—you know, the ones you glare at out of the corner of your eye while you're trying for the life of you to focus on what's happening onstage.
After the last number, we picked up our wrappers and empty CapriSuns, shook out the blankets and folded them, and filed out with everyone else who had actually listened to the performers.
On our downhill trek, my date and I spotted this sign, stood under it and craned our necks and contemplated it for a full handful of seconds.
Looked around us in the sky. Saw nothing. Looked at each other and joked that it wasn't for falcons at all but for the birdwatchers who meander into the middle of the street with necks craned and eyes fastened upwards.
We four watched the sun set and the clouds pinken, purple, gray, and finally darken over the temple. We argued about whether the blue of the sky at sunset should be light, baby, wan, dying, or simply pale. I thought feverish but had no idea how that would make sense, so I didn't say anything and stuck with pale.
Before touring the Conference Center we decided to stow our picnic gear in the car. So we took the stairs down to the parking garage, laughing all the way, found the doors locked and trekked back up the stairs, laughing more breathlessly. Took the elevator and exited on the wrong level. Got back in the elevator after some fruitless searching for the Subaru and landed on the right level this time.
We missed the last tour of the night but were allowed to see the auditorium. While there we chatted with one of the tour guides, and though I felt a bit embarrassed that the CapriSun had evidently gone to our heads and we had regressed to teenage mode, I didn't feel guilty enough to pipe down. Yet.
We got in the elevator again and found our car without trouble. Circled the parking garage a couple times before our driver finally found the exit, merged onto West Temple, then onto the freeway, and swerved through traffic back to our own town street, talking, as we had done much of the night, of the attractions, activities and clubs at my new university of choice, to which I have never been but everyone else in the car had. Swerved into Roxberry (because the CapriSuns were wearing off), picked up smoothies, swerved out of Roxberry and home.
My conclusions: 1) If that's what a CapriSun does, it's no wonder I'll never drink. 2) Swerving instead of driving can be fun—every once in a while and as long as it stays safe. 3) I'm a back-seat driver even when it's not my little brothers driving. 4) It's a riot to go have inexpensive fun with a group of friends. 5) I'm excited to start at BYU in a matter of weeks. 6) Double dates with my sister are the best. 7) I never want to grow out of picnics. 8) Temple Square is breathtaking at sunset. 9) To let go every once in a while, to be a kid again—that's refreshing.
Hope you enjoyed your weekend! Let a new week begin!!