What's so fat about Tuesday?

I can't tell why it feels to have been such a long day. I was tired. But too antsy to rest. And I found my obligations to be more time-consuming than I had anticipated. But I didn't stretch and strain so very much.

Mardi Gras last year involved Chinese New Year (the blasted lunar calendar confuses me to crumbles), celebrity sightings, a seedy strip joint, nearly getting lost in Silverlake, and finding my way home late after much dimly-lit activity. It went from red lantern to sotto voce. And that's a fine spectrum to traverse. Was it even Mardi Gras today? Does it all just seem phony and dumb the further you get from the French Quarter? Will Ash Wednesday be celebrated with as much aplomb? I will look for ashen crosses on the foreheads of folks tomorrow. I'll wager I won't see many. Another Mardi Gras passed. Another nameless Tuesday, but this time with a name.

It's not the best plan to live in the past. But if you can keep your past sorted out with postcard-style snapshots of the memorable moments, I don't consider that a bad thing. And if you can recall vividly those moments when you were tender and shy and nervous and anxious, you should. I try to. If you can string together the lantern-lit flashes and turn your recollection into a lifetime's worth of first kisses and carnival cotton candy and sand between your toes and raised glasses, you should. I'm certain of it.

I'm not living in the past tonight. I'm living in the moment between then and later. It's both after and almost. But not quite now. It's like seeing everything you ever wanted, neatly packed into a cellophane package. So perfect it would almost seem a shame to tear the wrapping and let it all tumble out. It's that rare sort of pause. Wanting to wait. Wanting to freeze and stand utterly still and not breathe for a moment.

We can sleep all of our worries away
'Cause tomorrow, today will be yesterday.

Lullaby. And good night.