My Mardi Gras memories are fuzzy at best. While other five-year olds were happily vomiting on the teacup ride at Disneyland, I was spinning on a barstool at Pat O'Brien's – home of the original Hurricane – and the most sought after souvenir cocktail glass in New Orleans. Mardi Gras, or Fat Tuesday signals the beginning of rigourous purging for the pious – or Lent – as it's known in some circles. After a big load of pancakes, hypocrites around the globe endure 40 days without a variety of vices, such as; dark rum, chocolate, buggery, Bingo, beastiality and so on. And, with the exception of Sundays, Friday nights, and the occasional Wednesday, those crazy alms givers stick to it like Christ on a cross.
Fat Tuesday marks the sixth week of my own agnostic, self-imposed giving up of all things sinful and delicious. Six weeks of protein shakes, salmon, vegetables and U Weight miracle vitamins. Six weeks without wine, popcorn, chocolate, bread, butter, buggery, vodka, cake, salt, fun, chicken wings, hangovers, cookies, crack, and coffee.
Today, a lesbian in the park stopped to tell me how great I looked. Okay, so she wasn't a lesbian but I haven't given up my snide and cynical bitter twist on reality. I also haven't had anyone tell me I looked great since I was five and spinning on a New Orleans barstool in a dress.
Six weeks is the difference between feeling like a lump of shit and pulling on an old pair of Levi's – so I'm going for six more. What the hell. I'll join the pious for this grueling stretch until Easter, when Jesus rises from the dead and sees his shadow – whereby, we get six more weeks of fucking winter.
And hot cross buns.
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