I wanted to title this post “When it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” Then, I wondered what it meant to be “cracked up.” Yes, I looked it up on the internet. (Ah, World Wide Web, how I love you.)

Apparently, the verb crack can mean to boast about something. So, perhaps I boasted about how wonderful the Carnival ball would be in one of my last posts. Well, it wasn’t what it was cracked up to be.

First, I loved the company and the dinner before. Plus, y’all, men in white tie and tails are hot, and I’m not talking temperature. It’s a good look. 

Now, on to the ball itself. I didn’t grow up in New Orleans. I’m not all about tradition. I’m not all crazy about pageantry. So, the parade of men in elaborate costumes with full face masks followed by young ladies in white dresses always gives me the willies. Yes, the king has a great costume. The queen’s dress and train are stunningly amazing with crystals that glitter, ermine (real or fake), and velvet. Whew! It’s a thang to see. 

Yet, I didn’t feel any romance in the room. I didn’t get the excitement. I have to be missing something, but maybe I’ll never get it. I will go again next year with a pretty dress, a husband dressed as finely as possible, and maybe another couple or two to share the affair. I just won’t crack on it.