Dunk'd

I would be remiss if I didn't share with my L.O.R. (Legion of Readers) a photo of my fine self during my turn in the dunk tank at our school's recent fall festival.  I was the first target of the evening, because someone told me I might want to ask for the first time slot to avoid the inevitable "tank o' funk" that would await those who took their turns toward the end of the event.  Turned out to be priceless wisdom.  When I dipped my toe into the clean, fresh, and really quite warm water, I new it was under the best of all possible circumstances that I was subjecting myself to sure humiliation.

So I carefully climbed up the tiny ladder and delicately positioned myself on the seat.  There was already a huge line of sweet-faced deviants, tickets in hand, waiting for their shot at Mrs. Byrd.  Of course, many of them didn't really care or even know who I was.  They were merely possessed with the spirit of dunk, and their beady little eyes practically twinkled with the thought of making the old girl go down.  Some of my own students took their turns, of course, and I had great fun talking lots of trash to them.  

The very first kid cheated.  Flat out cheated.  Each kid could throw three balls at the target, and he missed all three.  Did this stop him from achieving the desired effect?  Did he allow a pesky little thing like THE RULES keep him from success?  Oh, no.  Before anyone knew what was going on, he rushed the tank, throwing himself on the tripping mechanism, a blood curdling growl rising from within his belly, and the last thing I remember before plunging into the swirling depths is a vision of this miscreant, fists raised in victory, a cloud of darkness  surrounding him like a cloak.

Okay, perhaps I'm embellishing a little, but he really did cheat.  Truth is, he came around and apologized later.  So maybe the incident was outside the norm for him, and his little soul wasn't, after all, birthed in the Cradle of Eeeevil.

Most of my assailants were cute little kindergardeners, or so it seemed, and even when they hit their mark, there wasn't enough force to dunk me.  So we let 'em manually do the job.  I went down many times over, and somehow, even though I always knew it was coming, it seemed to catch me off guard.  If you've even been in one of those things, you know just what an abrupt, jarring feeling it is, surprise or no surprise.

When my fifteen minutes were up, I happily climbed out of the tank, soaking wet and mascara free, clothes clinging desperately to every inch of me.  I wasn't too pretty, but I'm a team player, and although you know I just HATE to be the center of attention, I was willing to sacrifice my dignity for the good of all.  Well, now that I'm looking at the picture, maybe it wasn't so good for all . . . :-)