The Dirt Field

My family is big on tradition – every year, we read The Night Before Christmas on Christmas Eve, eat corned beef and cabbage on St. Patrick’s Day, and set off illegal fireworks on the 4th of July. Easter is no exception; the “Easter Bunny” still hides my basket, because nothing says ‘praise the resurrection of Jesus’ like digging through somebody else’s closets looking for a basket of candy.

Spearheading this holiday insanity is my mother. She’s not just a trip, she’s an all-expenses-paid vacation to the moon; to know her is to love her and after meeting her, people always tell me, “Your mother is such a nice lady.” (It is apparently not hereditary.) Anyhoo, here’s a little video of my Easter.

In true Bayer family style, my Easter basket was filled with whisky, pantyhose, candy, and some sharp objects.

Then I proceeded to eat 90% of the candy in that basket. My philosophy was that I’d get all of my indulgences over with in one day and start fresh the next morning. This worked – candy sightings today induced nothing more than cringes – but by the second hard interval on the bike tonight, I was reminded forcefully of the many reasons Cadbury does not make food for athletes. Hello eggs, goodbye legs.