I will admit to a profound and profoundly anxiety-provoking ambivalence about Carnival season. I do like the spectacle, the sights and sounds and the sense of community that can only come from standing in line, year after year, next to the same people in front of the same 3 portable toilets (do they ever clean them?). I like to watch, to observe; I like to think about what all these people do with the rest of their lives, the normal lives, the 50 weeks out of the year in which we at least pretend like we're regular, productive human beings. Take, for instance, the guy with the swarm of stuffed animals stapled to his pants: what does he do for a living? Or the matronly woman who nearly knocked down my toddler in order to catch a string of shiny, but nonetheless worthless, beads?
People let loose at Carnival. I like to see that.
But most of me would rather stay home. I hate admitting that, but its true. I can finally read again, I finally have a few moments in the day to stick my nerdy nose in a book, and I am currently enthralled with a novel entitled Case Histories and Cade teases me for this but its all I want to do lately. I don't want to stand outside in the cold and be social, for pete's sake. I don't want to fight for beads, I don't want to make small talk with the matronly woman who nearly stampeded my child. I love Carnival, I really do, but these days there's not enough of me to go around. These days, there's just enough of me left to find out whodunnit.