My Kind of Mardi Gras

I have to admit I had the kind of Mardi Gras I have always dreamed of having. Not the one where I'm wearing the most flamboyant costume of anyone else within miles of the French Quarter. Nor the one where I'm the most intensely desirable stud strutting the cobblestones (okay, asphalt) of Bourbon Street. Not even the one where I'm finally old enough and rich enough to be slung up on a papier-mache throne atop a papier-mache float and hauled down Saint Charles Avenue as Rex.

No, I had the kind of Mardi Gras where I stayed home.

I was still suffering from:

1. a head cold,
2. a chest cold,
3. bronchitis,
4. swine flu,
5. pneumonia, or
6. that trusty old New Orleans crud.

On top of that, it was too cold to go out and try to see those things it was too cold for other people to expose or do. Besides, at my age, bosoms and boners have become pretty generic; pretty, I'll grant you, but generic, nonetheless.

So I stayed home.

I'm not comfortable in crowds, you see, never have been; and Mardi Gras crowds can be overwhelming, stopping you in your tracks for what can seem to be like hours at a time. Even yesterday, when I finally did venture out to pick up a lunch from a little joint up the street, this scrawny slut tried to block me from crossing the street on my way back home. They have no manners or respect, these kids today. They should be kept in pens.

So, yes, I stayed home. Home, where it was close and warm. Where I could cough my lungs out, moan about the way the world has gone to hell, and mourn the passing of the good old days when life was, you know, good. When bosoms and boners had meaning, and scrawny sluts knew how to make you feel like you were really the one wearing the most radiant costume for miles around and nobody, but nobody, else could pound the cobblestones (or even the asphalt, for that matter) like you could.

It was a lovely holiday. My kind of Mardi Gras.