Lets Go To The "EX"!

Ah! The "EX". The CNE. The Canadian National Exhibition. I love it.

The question is: why?

Its not nostalgia. Or the mid-way thrills. The shows, the Tiny Tom doughnuts, the barkers or the piglets in the petting zoo, though the appeal of those snotty sweeties is difficult to deny.

Its the same thing every year, renewed and refreshed in some way. We hug the llama, pet the yak, cuddle the piggies then on to the rides. Merry-go-round and round and round and round. The flying bees the swirling swings. The pirate ship that rocks and the submarine that loops not only above water but above ground. I like the ferris wheel. My little ones always like the Bouncy Whatever -- castle, tiger, train, slide, amoeba, peace conference. Fill it with air and chain a bored carney to each end and you've got yourself a hit with the under seven set. Were it not against the rules you could leave your kid in one all day.

I always play The Birthday Game once. I won once. Some hard packed teddy with a lecherous glare. I am sure I could fool the guy who guesses your age. No one believes I have a university aged child. Second year, actually. With my kindergartener in tow I am confident the guessers guestimate would fall far short of my real age of 46, and much closer to my mental age of seven and a half. Eleven on a good day. But I never play. I just don't have much use for a metre high Sponge Bob or some furry chapeau so garish it would be rejected by Cat in The Hat's flamboyant cousin.

When the heart is willing but the feet need a rest, the classic art of crowd watching is recommended. Ponder these ageless questions: why do people buy those enormous faux flowers painted in eye stinging colours and where are they going to put them in their homes? How is it that prim older white ladies wear matching white structured hair and white structured trousers and never have a spot on them? Is it because they have worn polyester so long it has been assimilated into their physiology? Why do men always wear sweat stained ball caps that appear to shrink their skulls? Who issues that uniform to the oversized-plus-plus female smokers so they all look alike? You know, the stretch pants, lop sided t-shirt, cigarette permanently stained with virulent purple lipstick and hair slicked and stretched back so tight into a cheerie-o sized bun or a limp skimpy pony tail that it distorts the facial features. Why do they all dress the same?

Rejuvinated and probably perplexed now, one must clear one's mind with a visit the fire station, the cows and better living centre. How else can you see a genuine Sham-Wow or Slap Chop in action? How else would you know your meagre existence could be improved with the minor addition of an everlasting nail file?

Visit the adult mid-way and observe the idiots spinning themselves free of several IQ points. See them wobble off the Zipper or the Fire Ball or the or the Grey Matter Jelly Maker and spew up everything since lunch a week last Tuesday, then amble on for another go at self destruction through unbalanced terror. S'fun. To watch.

We end the night generally ten to twelve hours after opening, knackered to the core. By the bitter end I am jogging from ferrris wheel to merry-go-round with a child affixed to my back and the hazy gaze of a long distance runner while my husband feeds me energy bites (ok, wine gums) without breaking my stride. Its painful, but it feel good. It feels traditional. It will be three days before I can walk without wincing, just as long before I can straighten up again. But even as I leave, I look forward to next year.

I love the EX. I just don't know why.