Dealing with the Mardi Gras hangover: two Advils and a life assessment

Mardi Gras has come and gone like ashes floating in the wind — or in our case, the fading cross of ashes marked on the foreheads of the majority of Catholics in New Orleans on Wednesday.

What you are feeling is normal.

Now that I am coming down from a week of Mardi Gras debauchery, I am dealing with the unavoidable “Post-Mardi Gras Depression.” And, while I am not feeling depressed for any reason in particular, I can’t help but feel suddenly overwhelmed with anxiety, sadness, and a feeling of uselessness as I try to return to normal life.

It is an emotional hangover of sorts that, unfortunately, cannot be cured with Advil and Popeye’s chicken (although I would love nothing more than to be spending a day smothered amongmy 17 pillows and a box of fried chicken.)

No, this recovery takes life reevaluation.

Although I find some comfort in knowing that there is an entire city going through this predicament with me, it doesn’t minimize the dark cloud that’s been looming over me all morning. So, for anyone going through this with me, I offer you some advice: Get back to work, clean your house, drink water, and make a list of your Lenten promises.

Even if you’re not religious, this is a time when you can start over and make a deal with yourself – almost like a New Year’s resolution that has an expiration date before you can break it. Feel free to use my promises as a guide.

Below is everything that I am giving up for Lent. Once this is published, it is official, so wish me luck as I use the next 40 days to repent my sins from the past year (or longer in some instances.)

1. Boys whose names start with the letters J, R, and K.
2. Expectations of people.
3. Ordering takeout and delivery when Chase Low Balance starts texting me.
4. Ramen noodles (unless Chase Low Balance starts texting me).
5. Procrastination.
6. Going to sleep without removing my makeup.
7. Not looking like Adriana Lima.

Crescent City (Mis)Connection is a dating blog that runs weekly in NolaVie. Its author is anonymous for romantic reasons (she’d never get a date).