I just sat down when I heard the announcement, “Gentlemen, start your engines.” Suddenly, there was a roar that filled the air and shook my port-a-potty like a magic fingers mattress at a cheap motel. It was majestic! It will go down as one of my most memorable visits to the laminate loo … ever.

Last night I accompanied my husband to Darlington Raceway for what I thought would be 367 laps of unadulterated boredom. Turns out, it wasn’t that bad. When we got lost at 1:00 in the morning in downtown Florence, it wasn’t that bad. When I ate a pretzel that would test the integrity of my tooth enamel … OK, that was pretty bad.

A funny thing about NASCAR, you pay a premium for the nosebleed seats where you can see more of the track. We were in a section marked, “You have to be this tall and have a note from your doctor to take this ride.” I trudged up the steps thinking, “This is where the smoking and lapsed gym membership really pays off!”

There were a couple other oldsters up in our section of Tyler Tower. We passed their unconscious bodies somewhere around row 32. You could tell the senior set by their seat cushions. We bought our inflatable tush pillows from a vendor down at sea level, before we hired a couple Shirpas to get us to the top. The vendor was enticing other people with the pretty colors. He took one look at us and pointed out the contoured donut design, with a convenient crotch cup holder. I got mine in yellow.

I admit that I whined a bit at the bathroom conditions, but my sweetie came through. As I sat on my cushion, catching my breath and trying not to touch anything, he presented me with two packets of moist towelettes that he’d swiped from the condiment counter by the snack bar. I may not have gotten funnel cake, but I was able to hold my head high and eat my stale pretzel with E coli-free hands.

As far as I can see, NASCAR fans place all their hopes and dreams for future happiness on the shoulders of their favorite driver. When my boy, Carl Edwards, came in second, the man next to us threw his headset to the ground, smashing it into tiny bits. It’s just this kind of beer induced passion that keeps people paying $99 to climb to the top of Tyler Tower … that and the possibility of fiery car crashes. My dreams for future happiness include getting the ringing out of my ears, and going to a sporting event that includes funnel cake. I’ll even bring my own moist towelettes.