Saturday was the manic part: I did the laundry, did my Pilates to make up for missing ballet class Thursday, got my haircut (always an ordeal –the girl who cuts my hair does a great job, but she also spends forty-five minutes making sure it gets blow-dried perfectly straight with lots of volume, and I always end up looking like a TV anchorwoman), then hit the Fall for Dance festival with Yan. It was a pretty good performance; I would have liked a few more true ensemble numbers and a few less dance-less musical interludes (or at least, have them spread out so they aren’t in consecutive pieces) but for $10 orchestra seats it was a little hard to complain. We’re going again on Tuesday to see Damien Woetzel and the Urban Bush Women, which I’m really looking forward to (despite having already seen the former piece during NYCB season last winter). But by the time it was all over I had a mighty caffeine withdrawal/sinus headache – aided by the percussion and tap shoes in the FFD finale – so I was looking forward to a nice relaxing, Sunday …

Which, after all the Jets-Mets madness, (and the gradual awareness that my Sooners gave up 300+ yards to freaking Colorado) turned into quite the depressive day indeed. If I hadn’t had to go to the grocery store for a sugar and caffeine fix (having learned my lesson from the previous day), I think I probably would have just stayed in my pajamas all day. I kind of feel like baseball season didn’t really end, last year, so having the Cards’ season officially end on the same weekend the Sooners came crashing back to Earth and I had to listen to Keith Hernandez make SOJ jokes (way to kick half your audience when they’re down, Keith) -- well, it was pretty much how the entire baseball season has gone, save for that brief period of light in August (insert lame Faulkner- tragedy of a baseball season analogy here).

But it’s over – the title-defense (such as it was) is over, any pretensions to an OU National Title is over, I’ve got nothing left for October except to finish the Novel Type Project and the sweater for Cousin Mo’s new baby and hope the Jets can somehow find their way back to .500. It might be nice to not spend the entire month screaming at my television.