Photo courtesy of Suzanna Danna
Hello little blog world! It is spring almost! Practically! How did that happen?! Fucking Daylight Saving Time, that’s how, apparently.
My primary strategy for avoiding seasonal affective disorder is planning Weetacon, which just so happens to fall within earshot of the first springish day here in Coldington. Chris, one of our Weetacon faithful, said that he thinks of Weetacon as the last boot in the ass to winter. Get out of here, now, you. Go on now, go, walk out the door, you’re welcome for the ear worm (and if you didn’t get that, you’re a very young person. Wear sunscreen even in winter please and don’t start smoking. You’ll thank me for that someday.)
And now comes the annoying task of closing out Weetacon: believe it or not, even a week later and there’s still stuff to do on my Weetacon task list. For instance, I have dozens of thank you notes to write, photos to upload and Weetacon gear to pack away for another year. And we do a Post-Mortem where the people who helped make Weetacon into Weetacon get together and talk about what worked, what didn’t, and what we should do to make next year awesome, which often has some action items associated with that as well.
(I’m certainly not complaining about choosing to do this: when you have a labor of love, it doesn’t seem like WORK, necessarily but it definitely means that you are still BUSY.)
You can look forward to an Igigi review and gift certificate giveaway, plus some of the ladies of Weetacon are offering you the chance to win up to $700 in Igigi gift certificates, just by leaving comments on their reviews (there are easy links to each review over at the Weetacon page, along with a slideshow and list of the garments worn, updated frequently through March 30).
Go over to that bold link in the above paragraph and win yourself some Igigi loot. Go ahead. I’ll be right here waiting for you when you get back. Promise.
I really think this year’s Weetacon kicked the ass of every Weetacon that came before it. We had an amazing time, an uplifting fashion show, hilarious drunken anecdotes (Trivia: you can separate the veterans from the newbies by how steadfastly they swear by the $10 Rule) and what might have been the very best closing ceremonies in my memory (although the Weetathlon Games had an awesome closing ceremony, with the awarding of the gold, silver and bronze medals, complete with the staggered dias that still makes me laugh). So I think back to that and it makes it all worth it.
Every year, the attendees of Weetacon report that they inevitably get the Post-Weetacon Blues. I’m not sure if this is recognized by the DSMV, but it does seem to be an actual thing. I’ve been thinking about what it could be: maybe a little reaction to the strain of eating a lot of rich food, drinking more alcohol than a normal weekend and not getting enough sleep, paired with the usual fatigue of air travel for the majority of our attendees? Or maybe it’s the audacity of trying to slot yourself back into a very normal and comparatively non-awesome drudgery of your usual life with its annoying responsibilities. Or a physical withdrawal from all of the good vibe-y brain chemicals that you experience all weekend long when you walk into a room full of people and they immediately squeal and tell you how hot you look, perhaps? Or maybe it’s the triumvirate of all of those things? Regardless, the Post Weetacon Blues are real and while I don’t have to haul my ass across the country on a jet plane and I didn’t really drink much alcohol or eat horribly unhealthy stuff last weekend, I definitely was suffering a full blown attack of Weetaconitis after everyone went home.
One of the unspoken (and sometimes spoken) tenets of Weetacon is that we try to balance the bawdy with the indulgent. I think that’s really the secret: we may gently poke fun at you for your anger issues, grabby hands or ho’wear then we’ll hand you a trophy that says we love you, just the way you are. No matter what, your Weetacon thinks you’re a star. We don’t just think it, we KNOW it. Maybe that’s something that people don’t hear often enough on the other 51 weekends a year.
You are a star. And don’t you forget it.