Flugtag Phalange

Right now, I'm typing this post with the eraser-end of a pencil, gripped tightly, yet strategically, between my teeth. You see, I'm a bit incapacitated at the moment, as I very well could have a broken finger. It all started like this....

Around 11:30, I picked up Lana and met Siebe and Mandy at the OHB Waff to carpool down to Riverfront Park to Flugtag Nashville. Upon entering Nashville, we can tell that the traffic around Riverfront is rather congested, so we start navigating our way through the grid of streets looking for free parking. After a couple of laps around the city, I see a half-empty parking lot adjacent to a industrial building, making the perfect place to park my vehicle. The only catch is that it's located on a SoBro section of 3rd Avenue, and the street is closed for construction. As we pass the lot, I maneuver a u-ey, and tell my co-pilot Lana to jump out of the car and move the large orange cones so my car can pass through. She balks, and Siebe follows suit, until Mandy steps up to the plate.

We approach the entrance to the blocked street, and Mandy casually gets out of the car and moves two of the cones. I pull into the street, and Mandy replaces the cones, then runs around and hops back in the car. We're laughing hysterically at our genius, and I zip into the parking lot on the left. Suddenly, this large beige truck with police lights on the front grill speeds toward my car as if it means to T-bone the Cubmobile. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh, shinkta.

I pull into a parking place, and roll down my window, as an undercover cop gets out of his truck and marches over to my side. I bark at my girls to turn on the charm. I put on a smile and say "hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii" in a sing-songy voice (which, evidently, isn't difficult for me because Sarah and Lana say I sing my words anyway), and the officer asks how we're doing today. I say, "we're good, how are you?" He's obviously done with the small talk, and asks me why one of my passengers got out and moved the cones. I reply that we wanted to park here in this lot (duh), and we thought the road was closed only due to construction, meaning we could use it for a brief moment to park. The officer got a little smart with me, and said "is this your building, giving you the right to park here?" [Um.....what do you think?] "No sir, it isn't. We're sorry." [snicker] "You ladies need to turn around and go out the way you came in and be on your way." "Yes, sir."

The officer swaggers back to his truck, and we stifle laughter as I turn the car around. Mandy hops out of the car, moves the orange cones, and we're on our way. By this time, we're in hysterics, and I turn right onto 2nd Avenue. We're eyeing the front-side of the same infamous building on our right, when Lana looks up ahead of us, and calmly states, "Mary Anna, you've turned on a one-way street." I pull into the parking lot, out of the way of oncoming traffic, roaring with laughter. And to think that we haven't even made it to Flugtag yet.

As anticipated, Riverfront is packed. We find a spot atop the park, and stand in place, waiting for the first flight. In the meantime, we're joined by Amy, Katie, Natalie, Miller, Jon and Ron. As our group of friends is growing, so is the surrounding crowd---and the temperature. It's sweltering hot, and I'm squashed with people on all sides. Most of you know I don't like strange people, or just people in general, to touch me. Not only is my love language not physical touch, but it makes me incredibly uncomfortable when I'm not given my two-feet of personal space. The sweaty and hairy guy next to me must have been unfamiliar with my boundaries though...

After about six or so flights, we could no longer take the heat. We took our sweaty selves out of the park and toward the car. Shortcuts to the car had us walking on a narrow, sidewalk-less street, with a very tall chain-link fence to our right. We're marching single-file, when my right hand ring gets caught on a chain-link, and jerks me backward. My ring-finger twists and turns unnaturally. I reclaim my finger, and continue walking. A few steps later, my finger starts to swell, and bruise. Thankfully, Nurse Amy takes a look at it and thinks it's broken.

I shed a tear for the pain, but then start laughing at how freakish my finger looks. We are all parched and cranky at this point, and head toward the Mexican restaurant near my car. The five of us park at a booth, and I ask the waiter for six ice waters---five for us to consume, one to bathe my crippled hand. I spend the remainder of the meal with my hand in a glass of ice-water.

So here I am. Amy told me that regardless of whether my finger was broken or sprained or jammed, the doctor would still give me a splint and send me on my way. As much fun as it'd be to have a splint, I'm opting for the ice-pack and sympathy.