A lawn thing, in the neighboring neighborhood. A band in a gazebo. Picnics.
In that neighborhood, everyone is younger. A little flossier. The oldest kids are three, four.
This is a territorial place, and I fancy myself an ambassador of sorts. Out to represent our very near neck of the woods.
I smiled, chatted, tried to fit in. Spoke to one or two people I didn't know. Admitted, proudly, to our address half mile down the road. Shooed our children away from the cornhole game.
It got dark, we gave our kids glowsticks.
A dog that pPod, age 4, was playing with, bit his glowstick.
It sprung a leak. The dog, apparently unharmed, persuaded us to take advantage. So, naturally, we covered both sons in glowing leopard spots.
The younger adults in the crowd - barely past rave age - joined in. Soon, several people were messily glowing and dancing to the rocking 70s cover band.
This was good. We felt a part of things.
...we heard, sharply, "well, honey, that's Their prerogative. WE don't DO that," as a mom tensely pulled her own glowstick-clutching daughter away from us, as she begged her mom to 'open' hers.
And we realized that on the edges of our luminescent revelry, all the parents of small children still in attendance were visibly quite offended - shielding their children and herding them away.
Our work here was done. We gathered our things and went home.
(We might have giggled a little. Maybe. Rebels.)