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?”