Yesterday was the Hash House Harrier's Red Dress Run. It was obviously good times, because how can it not be when you have a city full of men wearing dresses that evokes "Lady in Red" sweating in the brutal August heat doing anything but running?
I actually intended to run. Instead, I found myself perched on a bar stool most of the afternoon in a short satin nighty. At some point in the evening, the fact I was wearing a red satin nightgown in public that came from France's version of Target began to hit home. It was a curious phenomenon - the drunker I got the more self-conscious I got. So by the time I finally made it in my door I was tearing that sucker off like a mad woman chanting "freedom," to myself and hightailing it to a shower to wash away my daring.
I have to say, I am starting to realize that at heart I am a very shy person. Part of my love for New Orleans comes more from watching than actually participating in the realm of craziness around me. Although participation is sometimes mandatory.
This morning I woke up to a barrage of emails from people that I apparently drunkenly wrote sentimental emails to last night. So, back to the "you are not allowed to leave your bed after you take Ambien" rule. I often wonder where those thoughts come from, who wrote them, and how they managed to do it with minimum typos.
Besides ridiculous facebook postings that may have either been cries for help or obtuse expressions of giddiness, I realized I actually emailed a friend who died four years ago. This wincing silliness, combined with a fuzzy Sunday has brought my cheerful mood from yesterday down somewhat. So, I find myself again instituting the "this week will be different" mentality, while puttering about doing useful things like studying forehead wrinkles, attempting to work and continuing to question the unquestionable while once again avoiding phone calls from my mother.
There's also writing this very pointless blog entry of course.
But seriously, regrettable contacts aside, the world was madcap and beautiful yesterday. I got a chance to meet new people and hang out in the lovely company of people I already knew. I learned that the Erin Rose has a 48 ounce martini glass like those fancy schmoes in DC. I got some good tips on how to roll with the punches as a young lawyer, and when to throw some. I got some fun anecdotes from a girl with discerning satirical taste. A frat boy bought me a drink because I said I liked his Duke shirt - giving me some hope for people who attend my alma mater these days. I saw an astonishing number of tattoos, still small in comparison to an astonishing number of bad life choices.
Sometimes I think living in New Orleans may have the unintended effect of making me feel nice and vanilla, and that's actually not such a bad thing.
But this morning, I am missing tobacco fields and the early morning hum of fisherman on the lake below. I am missing my mother's 3000 calories breakfasts, and my father's impressions. I am missing my sister's loud and commanding laugh, and the banjo twang of the Piedmont accent. I am missing vinegar sauce and swimming pools and baptist revivals and NASCAR.
I think the time might be ripe for a trip home to Sweet Carolina.