The Grand Funk Cure

May 18 2011

Usually, sunshine is a sure bet to pull me out of any kind of funk.

And we had rare, full, glorious sunshine all day long.

It was a roll down the car windows day.

It was a watch the birds chase each other in and out of the blossoming spring trees day.

It was a look what’s a-comin’, can’t wait ’til summer day.

And I was still in a funk.  A grand funk.  For no discernible reason other than I’m a girl, and I feel entitled to funky days every now and then.

Now, funky days can be their own kind of fun.  The wallowing kind.  The hang out in broken-in, saggy-bottomed sweats kind.  The melt a bowl of chocolate chips for dipping crackers and pretzels and bananas and my finger kind.

But I do try to save the funk for gloomy, gray days when the clouds will match my despondent efforts with their own dark, misty presence.

A sunny day seems like a serious waste of good funk.

So I did what I had to do to de-funk myself.

I pulled out the big guns.

twin preschoolers + ice cream = big guns

I could feel the funk lifting, one lick at a time.

It was a sure cure for Grand Funkiness.

For I cannot look upon the residual blue grime and goo that shows unequivocally the sheer joy with which a 4-year-old can decimate an ice cream cone…

…without rising up, looking around, and saying, “Funk?  What funk?”