Tomorrow I’m flying back to the middle of things to visit my bests and longests, and to Mardi Gras.
I’m warning you I might forget you.
For the last decade, Kansas City’s Mardi Gras celebrations have softened my winters considerably. I have learned the ancient art of hot glue, painted portraits of kings and queens of France, cut many a crinolation and wrapped it in tinfoil, marched cheerfully while freezing, said hi to the same people every year even when we don’t know each other any other way, worn wigs, worked hard with staplers and plastic flowers and sequins and glitter and lace and ribbon.
Kansas City Mardi Gras doesn’t have a thing to do with showing your tits or drinking too much, though you could do either, and as long as you are cool about it, it would be fine. It’s about making stuff and wearing crazy things and making noise, all good habits.
When I was a little girl, I wanted to go to a ball in an Irish castle wearing a green dress (somewhat like Grania O’Malley, though that is a different story. Mardi Gras has completely satisfied this dream, though I still have not been to Ireland.
Mardi Gras, stomping off, sillying off, dancing off, sweating off, freezing off, tinfoiling and hot gluing the winter into submission.
I hope my plane makes it on time.