Not a Sprint

Ooh, Lord. Mardi Gras is a marathon, not a sprint.¹ Day after day, night after night of fun. And of course, fun + fun + fun = lots of fun. But after a while, it equals "Oh, my God. My soul aches." At which point, the veteran Mardi Gras-er knows its time for a break.² Yesterday was that day for me: skipped the parades, took the kids to the nursery, bought a big bunch of plants, stuck some of them in the ground,³ took a nap (which given my typical coffee intake, is a rare thing), lounged about, holed up at home for the evening, watched half a movie, and fell asleep at some absurdly early hour.⁴ Batteries recharged. Ready for more fun.⁵

1 Though, according to the forecasters, the final miles may be wet and nasty. Shucks.

2 Many a Mardi Gras amateur has burnt out too early and ended up incapable of rousting themselves for Tuesday morning, when the real business goes down.

3 I find mucking around in dirt, tending to lovely little living green things, to be one of the most soothing possible balms for the soul.

4 Though I then woke up at an absurdly hour, even by my standards. I swear, I'm turning into my farmer grandfather. I'm going to have to keep a herd of dairy cows in the back yard, just to give me something to do with all that pre-dawn time.

5 Which will stubbornly proceed in some form, regardless of any potential inclemency.