#69: I've been playing small.
How this vibrant-living advocate almost missed all the fun.
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“T-shirt!! T-shirt!! T-shirt!!!!”
Locking eyes with the masked, cone-hatted man on the float’s top tier, I kept shouting as I waved my arms and jumped up and down like a flaily car-dealership inflatable tube man.
Mr. Cone Hat momentarily disappeared. Popping back into view, he launched a rubber-banded white cotton missile through the air. I leaped for it, the beads around my neck banging up against my chin, glasses falling off my head.
“I got it! I got it!” I gleefully held up my prize to Kevin and Cynthia.
Their response matched my enthusiasm. “Show us what it looks like!”
While rolling the rubber band off, I had an out of body experience. My awareness floating above, I looked down at my multicolored fedora, my multiple strings of beads, and the plastic, palm-sized cow tucked into my right pocket and thought, “How the hell did I get here?”
But there was no time for navel gazing! The next marching band’s drum line had already kicked into gear. I stuffed my newly acquired loot into my left pocket and stepped back onto the street, hands clapping, toes tapping, smiling like the little kids perched on their dads’ shoulders, bouncing along to the band’s rhythm. There was far more Mardi Gras-ing to do.
I’d never set out to attend Mardi Gras.
I’m pretty confident I could have quite happily gone my entire life without ever going to Mardi Gras. So what was I doing here?
While booking Connor’s New Zealand flights last fall, I pictured myself wishing him farewell, coming back to the empty treehouse, and… reading a book?
I generally enjoy my solitude but going from a house full of Connor’s elated, Tigger-like energy to echoing silence would have been too much. It’s only taken seven years, but I’ve learned to spot these potential slides into hollowed-out loneliness a mile off. So seeing that red, flashing alarm light on the horizon, I whipped out my iPad and started clicky clacking my way to a surefire remedy — visiting my other beloved munchkin in her new habitat: New Orleans. By pure coincidence, it would be during Mardi Gras.
Flash forward to February, I’m standing at the airport gate, trying to decide if I regret this coping mechanism.
My fellow passengers were not the typical crew. First, they were far more energetic than an 8am Saturday morning flight justified. Second… well, let’s just say they were not attired in the gray February uniform of the Northeast United States. The guy to my right had a neon parade T-shirt displaying the name of a ‘krewe’ (whatever that was). The lady in front of me was rocking a head-to-toe ensemble of psychedelic color, fanny pack, and shoes to match. More than one person was sporting purple hair.
“Uh boy, this is going to be a one-and-done for me,” I thought. “I can tell, I am not a Mardi Gras person.”
Outfits with color in them? Not for me.
Preconceived notions of drunken debauchery? Not for me.
Fun that’s different from my tried and true go-to’s? Not for me.
Friends are my kryptonite.
I would have rather spent the weekend on the back porch of my Airbnb, reading one of the three books I packed for the four-day trip. But because Kevin and Cynthia were so excited to share their Mardi Gras expertise, I acquiesced.
At dinner on Saturday night, we scanned the parade app. (Yep, that’s a thing.) Kevin formulated the plan, “Meet us at Magazine and Bordeaux at noon and we’ll go from there. We’ll start with the Krewe of Thoth parade.”
If either he or Cynthia were surprised by how unenthusiastic my “ok, fine” was, they didn’t show it.
The next day I took my time walking to our rendezvous point. Families of all shapes and sizes flooded down the streets holding hands, pulling wagons and carrying ladders with weird wooden boxes on top whose use I could not figure out. Families? Well, already that’s different than expected...
Anther surprise were the outfits. A lady in front of me with carefully pinned faux butterflies all through her hair. Two guys in blowup dinosaur get-ups. And everyone from babies to 80+ year olds kitted out in the purple, gold, and green of Mardi Gras. I couldn’t help but smile. Somehow I spotted Kevin and Cynthia amidst the crowd, and found myself waving cheerily.
We crossed the street, squeezing into a space with an unobstructed view and friendly neighbors. Kevin popped into LeBonTempsRoule, an old haunt from his law school days, and soon emerged with cocktails. We chatted away about our kids while we waited for the parade to begin.
Then the remaining crowd milling in the street parted like the Red Sea as men on horseback trotted by in full masked and caped regalia, signaling the start of the action.
The krewe’s king’s float came next, gliding majestically down the street. It looked like something out of a fairytale underneath the towering oaks dripping with colored streamers. The sound of distant marching band drums filled the air. The roar of the crowd escalated from a five to a ten.
Welcome to one of the most fun experiences of my LIFE.
All of my favorite things were in this Mardi Gras parade:
Friends I love. We caught up on the months since we’d seen each other, celebrated each other’s loot haul, and shared our spoils — “I already got one of these, how about you take this one?”
Conversations with strangers. A dad with his three-year-old dancing atop his shoulders, the woman sharing her excitement that it was my first ever Mardi Gras, a man giving tips on the best location for tomorrow’s parades.
Drums. Need I say more?? Marching bands of every shape, size, and age blasted heart-thumping sound waves through my body. It was impossible not to get lost in the feel-good groove.
Goofy humans giving each other permission to be goofy humans. My favorites were the 610 Stompers. Their slogan: Ordinary Men. Extraordinary Moves. Tube socks, baby blue shorts, red headbands, dancing their hearts out. Pure infectious joy. (See the video below!)
Families oozing with excitement. Kids with green capes atop makeshift ladder boxes (mystery solved) waved their arms with glee as the float-riders tossed them kid-sized loot. Copious squealing.
Laughter. So, so much laughter.
And I came within an inch of missing it all.
I’ve lived most of my life like a turtle, content in my shell.
Sure, I’ve stuck my head out and pumped my stumpy little turtle legs to do some pretty courageous things — go to Patagonia by myself, share my private life with the Wall Street Journal, challenge the societal expectations of widowhood. But always on my own terms. Always within the realm of things I had already decided I was comfortable with.
Purple-haired seat mates on my NOLA-bound airplane? Turtle Sue gave those goofs one look and crossed out “attend Mardi Gras parade” on her calendar. And look what she would have missed.
I’m done being a turtle. Tucked in the darkness of this coffin-like covering, I can’t freaking see what delights the world has in store for me. Plus, this shell is weighing me the hell down.
But… how does one actually take off their turtle shell? How do we become open-minded, adventurous, and curious when we’ve spent decades set in our ways? It’s not just about “being open”. That internal command is too squishy, too passive. My brain needs a tangible action to take.
Something to do when my stomach churns in response to a new opportunity. Something to do when my heart leaps with excitement, then hits the ground with a thud at the risk. Something to do when my brain wants to default to the soft chair, warm fleece blanket, and book that will transport me to another world. But the technicolor reality I crave is not in my mind. It’s at my fingertips, there for the seizing.
Oh damn… I think I just have to practice saying “yes” when I want to say “no”.
This isn’t a glamorous takeaway.
We’re not melting preconceived notions, limiting mindsets, or rutted-out habits with a 1000-word blog. We’re just admitting that we are human, that our synapses require time to reconfigure, and that what we want is worth the effort.
So as I pivot to embody a non-turtle spirit-animal (choice TBD, dolphin sounds fun!), I’m going to focus on baby steps. I’m going to practice the muscle movements of leaning in when I would rather lean so far out I land on my couch, next to my pile of books. I’m looking for events beyond my go-to museum tours and book talks: comedy shows, concerts, maybe even an improv class! My editor Leona tells me that if I practice enough, she’ll take me to Burning Man. Yikes. We’ll see about that!
But on the flip side, I feel like I have the most vibrant and amazing life right now. So the realization that there are even more fabulous things to explore is beyond exciting.
Sweaty palms and knocking knees may be the price of admission, but that cost is ridiculously low for a day of smiling so hard my face hurts.
Turtle Sue… hold my French 75.
Life in all its splendor awaits,
Sue - so glad you had such a fun time. And been meaning to tell you - you are a hell of a writer. Always enjoy your posts.
🎉🎉😎🎉🎉