Samuel Johnson famously said, "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life." The south Louisiana feminist version would be, "When a woman is sick of Mardi Gras, she is friggin'' old." And evidently I am. Old. Friggin' old.
This year, for the first time since I moved down here 24 years ago (with the exception of four years in England), I am not going down to New Orleans nor have I attended any--not a single one-- of the now many Baton Rouge Mardi Gras parades on offer. Now, granted, there are many folks down here who never attend any Mardi Gras parades. We call those folks boring. And anti-social. And just plain pitiful. I mean, geez louise, why live down here if you don't do Mardi Gras? Why endure the petty parochialism and the horrific public schools and the godawful heat and the fire ants and the neanderthal politicians and the gargantuan roaches and the all-consuming humidity and the stinging caterpillars and the searing, burning, still livid legacy of Jim Crow, if you don't at least enjoy Mardi Gras?
Um. Because you're tired? Because you've had a cold for three weeks and your throat is still sore and your ears hurt and you're still struggling with copious quantities of snot? Or maybe, because you are, let's face it, just fuckin' old.
Maybe not. Maybe next year I'll be all fired up, ready once again to brave the neutral grounds (known in other places as "the medians," the ground between the traffic lanes) of New Orleans and drink beer at 10 am and jump up and down and yell "Throw me somethin', Mister!" and stagger home with a vast treasure of plastic beads and stuffed animals and raunchy souvenirs. This year, tho', I'm happy to snuggle down in the sofa and stream "Friday Night Lights" on HDTV and drink white wine and eat the fish my husband has lovingly prepared. Which sounds ok. Good. Normal. Healthy.
Except IT'S MARDI GRAS! It is not the time for Good or Normal or Healthy. 'Tis the time to break the rules, throw off the traces, violate the boundaries, turn the world topsy turvy.
Next year. Maybe.
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