...when I declared a Wallow Week.

Ok, so I know I’ve been MIA lately.  But I have a good reason.

I officially declared the week before last “Wallow Week.”

You know when something bad happens?  Well-adjusted people who think practically and look at the big picture generally take the hit and move on.  Slightly obsessive, detail-oriented sensationalists like me deal with things far more dramatically.  And, if we’re being honest, more satisfactorily.

We mope.  A lot.

It’s the essence of the thing, really.  Sure, what actually happened is sad.  But the idea—nay, the very CONCEPT of something sad happening, the metaphysical marker that is erected over this major event in life history—is tragedy.  It’s like more than what actually happened, you mourn the event, the situation itself, the fact that something happened at all.  That is how you elevate temporary misfortune to THE WORST THING EVER.

I do this on a regular basis, obviously.  Try it, it’s fun.  But in all seriousness, after a week or two of determined optimism that borders on martyrdom, you just get tired.  And, damn it, it’s time to wallow.

So I did.  By executive order, I instituted Wallow Week in Katie Land.  I submit to you a graphic summary.



And a magical thing happened.  Around Episode 14 of Roswell, after snickering at 1990’s bedhead and sweater sets, and the fact that teenage angst is evidently a universal phenomenon, I began to feel—dare I say it?  Better.  Happier.  Bouncier.  I got all the mope out of my system and the wallow out of my soul.

And then I decided to go to California.  More on that later.

Note: I decided the post-naming scheme was getting tedious, so from now on I'll name my posts "...name," where "..." is "A funny thing happened when."  So "...when I declared a Wallow Week" is to be read "A funny thing happened when I declared a Wallow Week."  I think that's better!