My Favorite Mardi Gras

Ash Wednesday was always an intriguing phenomenon to me. Having been raised in a Christian home, I saw value in observing Easter and Good Friday, but secretly assumed most sporting an ash laden forehead attended the Catholic service because doing so was a valid dismissal from fourth period*. For forty days thereafter, I would intermittently hear groanings regarding the disciplinary challenge of Lent. I do not want to make light of this and have a great amount of respect for people improving their relationship with God by means of fasting. In fact, I participated in Lent my freshman year of college. Confession: I gave up ice cream with the thought that I could shed superfluous pounds but caved less than a week into the season when Ben and Jerry's Half-baked pint beckoned.

It was not until my sophomore year of college that I was introduced to a Catholic tradition I could readily understand and embrace: Fat Tuesday. My roommate, Kate, had returned from studying abroad and joined me in our second floor Miller dorm. We met through tennis the year prior, and since neither of us had a roommate come that critical time housing decisions must be ascertained, we chose to live together. Although I missed the luxury of capering about the dorm nude, I was glad for her company second semester.

In early February, Kate shared with me the glorious traditions of Fat Tuesday. I was familiar with Mardi Gras beads, purple yellow, green, and Cajun style food, but she told me of others. The king cake housing a hidden, lucky baby Jesus. Okay, so the main tradition was king cake, but one cannot underestimate the power of dessert. In an ongoing effort to avoid any amount of work, we decided our dorm would host a Mardi Gras gala, and following another mildly exerting tennis practice, we gathered the necessary accessories.

1) King Cake. Unfortunately, the grocers had sold all variations thereof; not to be discouraged, we bought a pack of cinnamon rolls, a bit of frosting, and sprinkles.
2)Libations. Kate had recently tried coconut rum and sprite; since I was still bumming legal alcohol (in responsible quantities) from adults, I did not dispute. Plus, I consider myself an equal opportunist regarding mixed drinks.
3) Refreshments. In an effort to be outlandishly sophisticated, we provided an assortment of cheese, crackers and fruit.
4)Decorations. Absconded from the cafeteria.

The evening's festivities commenced in our 15' x 20' room, hosting an intimate gathering, involving singing, dancing, and telling ourselves we would not eat another piece of king cake - then doing so. We would work off at least a tenth of the calories in tomorrow's lackadaisical tennis practice - the other 90% would be worked off on Malloy's dance floor*. Per usual, the night ended with us roaming to the university cafe, displaying our extremely bubbly selves to the more responsible parties of JCU.

It was by no means epic, nor did it possess the adventuresome qualities of other tales Kate and I enjoyed together*. But every Mardi Gras, I reminisce with the palatable taste of nostalgia. My introduction to King Cake is definitely a factor, but more than that, the day reminds me of Kate. Had we met at a random party or in passing through a mutual friend, we most likely would not have been instant kindred spirits. Because we met through an intimate setting forcing relationships that may not have otherwise blossomed, we bonded often over the frustrating politics of collegiate athletics. Still, it was not until our arrangement of convenience that we truly got to know one another, and I am so blessed to have had that opportunity.

For many, college years were insouciant, spent frolicking within an unrealistic social bubble, shielded from cruel realities. Kate was dealt circumstances few could handle with similar grace and maturity during this time. She was nurturing when others needed comfort, forgetting her own needs, but strong and fiery when disrespected. Her honesty with herself and others helped me address confrontation in my own life. Her laugh was contagious, whether it was in response to an outrageous story, a silly song, or an awkward encounter, all of which were plentiful in our cozy space.

It has been years since we lived together, and entirely too long since we have spoken. As with many relationships, time and distance make communication sparse. She still inspires me, though. After a particularly long day, I hear her voice reminding me that, "if she did not know where I was, she stepped outside our room and could reliably hear my voice echoing in song throughout the dorm halls." I then force myself to sing whatever melody comes to mind en route the apartment door, smiling. If she could smile so exuberantly through those years, I certainly could smile despite the real world's minor inconveniences. And every Mardi Gras, I fondly remember a wonderful friend.

*If I wanted to skip school, my mother simply wrote a note explaining I did not feel well - because who really feels well when they wake up at six o'clock?

**At least by me. Kate would probably do Pilates or yoga.

***This means I did not disappear.