Maybe it's something in the water. Or the wine.

Day three: still wandering around beaming at everyone like a deranged birthday clown. I think people who walk by me are starting to swerve away, probably so they don't get any happy accidentally sprinkled on them. Today at gymnastics I felt like I had the wittiest, funniest, most intellectually stimulating conversation with the other Moms, with just the right amount of profanity to make us seem hip (we probably talked about Hugh Grant's butt and lunch room duty - who cares? Perception is everything).

Actually, watching Eve's skating lesson made me a little sad. When she refused to try I found it hilarious. She would stand motionless on the ice, gesturing madly at the instructor ("Do you know how wobbly these things are? Do you know how slippery this stuff is? You people are the most unreasonable tyrants I have ever encountered!!") This could last most of the hour, and I found her sheer tenacity sort of admirable (with the added benefit of seeing my husband's head nearly explode). But tonight she was really trying, and I realized she wasn't just being stubborn -- she's actually terrified of falling. So seeing her gamely but very slowly step-stepping around the rink made me sad. But that improvement, tiny and glacial as it was, earned her the Star of the Week certificate, so then she was happy, which made me happy. Maybe I just shouldn't watch next time.

Maybe this ludicrous cheery glow stems from starting the week getting sloshed at my mom and dad's and then coming home and taking two Advil and having the best sleep I've had in months. And waking up with no hangover (not good -- how am I going to learn my well-deserved lesson? Right now all I'm thinking is cripes, all the stressing over not exercising too late, which pill should I take at what time, warm milk -- GAH -- and all I really need to do is develop a drinking problem, preferably every night at dinner. I even got out of helping clear the table because my Mom was afraid I'd drop something). Don't know. God knows an impending onslaught of seventeen sugared-up five and six year olds doesn't usually take me to my happy place. Maybe this is a new and previously unsuspected dimension of denial. Maybe I've caught some wacky happy virus. I'm sure I'll be back to my normal, grim-and-weepy self in no time.