mardi gras

carnival

fat tuesday

I went to parties, bars and restaurants and didn’t get home until after midnight.

Didn’t see a single flashed breast.

Nor a pair of them, for that matter.

I went to a Fat Tuesday brunch on the invitation of privacy shattered Sharon. It seemed like a wonderful gathering and there were lots of people and good food there. Perfectly lovely time. That was the problem. It was lovely. By which, of course, I mean that no one got good and drunk and rowdy and started taking off their top.

So it went all day long. I went many various places and saw and spoke to a wide variety of lovely women, many of whom I absolutely adore and think the world of them. Not a one of them was rowdy or drunk and MORE TO THE POINT, not a single one of them would show me their breasts, even when I offered the obligatory beads.

Not even the ordinarily party hearty types. Tina and Sandy were bartending on the Paseo last night and they’ve become old married women and there wasn’t a breast in sight. Not in my sight in all events.

On the up side of mardi gras yesterday, I also wasn’t around anyone puking pink hurricane into a gutter and down the front of their not-as-clever-as-they-think carnival tee shirt.

I did see a few of the faithful with ash on their forehead this morning, however.

Since I have to grow old, why oh why do I seem to have to do so gracefully? Dammit.