Confession: Little People

I am very very sorry for every icky thing I ever said about being afraid of Little People. 

Even though I blame it mostly on the the exploitive antics of Stern-like radio jocks and early web videos, and maybe a twisted memory from watching the Wizard of Oz at far too young of an age,  I still -- I must -- take responsibility for letting my phobias spill over into my grown-up life.

Thankfully, a couple well-meaning friends and a few TLC television shows taught me the awful error of my agita, but nothing would mean more than what happened this weekend.

It was raining. It was a huge party at the site of every huge party of my youth. It was, for me and the Kid at least, a Homecoming of huge proportions: nearly everyone we ever knew was there, older now, but as funny and keg-ready as ever. We were two Prodigal fools, returned from the Great North to the great white way of the Connecticut Shore and damn, if there wasn't a familiar bonfire, a familiar band on stage and catered lobsters we never ate (yup; that's right) (it's Connecticut -- they go big; they also go home late). Which we did.

We went home very late -- after I fell, or tripped or slid off the sea wall. Not sure. It was raining; I was wearing rubber flip flops and I do like to dance. Wounds were incurred, grisly ones. And who came to my rescue? Who?

Not my studly giant husband or any of the well-loved homies of my past.

A Little Person came to my rescue. A Little Person saved me.