As if I needed another Old Yeller.

Good Lord, the economy sucks. I know I might be a little behind the 8 ball that I’m just NOW saying that, but I’d like to think that that’s because I’ve been intentionally living under a rock, in an attempt to stay optimistic-ish.

But it just got personal.

There are very few things in life that I genuinely look forward to. I look forward to Pizza Fridays, Groundhog’s Day, the eventual arrival of a mini-me, and Flurt on a Sunday.

As much as I love it, living all the way Downtown has its cons. Most of them can be viewed as cons AND pros. For instance, it’s a little “ghost-town-ish” on the weekends. When I’m bored but don’t feel like traveling, this is a con. The other 99.9% of the time, this is a pro, as I like the elbow room.

One con that has no counteractive pro, is Downtown’s lack of frozen yogurt. For those of you who don’t know, I could literally live on frozen yogurt. In fact, through 4 years of High School, I actually did. This is perhaps why I can’t fit into jeans from 13 years ago (which yes, I still have) - though, this may be a good thing, as a nothing-but-frozen-yogurt-diet is alarming and mental.

In any case, I love it. When the first Pinkberry (ever) opened in my LA neighborhood, I vowed to never move. When Pinkberry took over New York, I took over New York. This is a pattern that I don’t intend to break.

Thanks to the fact that imitation is the finest form of flattery and (in the case of Pinkberry) the fastest way to laugh all the way to the bank, there are impostors all over this city. I would not have moved to 90 West Street, had such an impostor not been located in Battery Park. Flurt was the final selling point in the apartment search.

Granted, I took a gamble, as Flurt is the only decent fro-yo place south of Ground Zero, but I figured I was safe, as it had the young mother market cornered in Battery Park, and very little overhead. They only accepted cash, ridiculously overcharged for only one flavor and very few toppings, and had a rotation of 4 young female employees whose hourly wage could not have been more than the cost of a medium, one topping cup.

I reserved Sundays for Flurt, as it’s a hangover cure, and by Sunday, all bets are that I have one. Yesterday was no exception. I spent all day on the couch, and by 5pm, I had decided that Gertie needed a walk, and I had had the type of weekend that constituted a large fro-yo with blackberries, strawberries AND mango. It was a trifecta day.

I then spent the next 20 minutes scouring our apartment for rogue dollar bills and change.

Pockets jingling with pennies, nickels and dimes, and perhaps some foreign coins, I practically skipped over there. As I neared Flurt, my skip went to a hop, which went to a walk, which went to a crawl, and I eventually stopped short. It was all dark inside. And not the usual “dark” that is a direct result of them running out, leaving “be right back notes” taped to the door, but “dark” as in no fro-yo, no toppings, no employee popping gum and reading UsWeekly. “Dark” as in closed. Forever.

The constant stream of store closure is an odd phenomenon of these times. There one day, literally gone the next, entire blocks of this city are being wiped out by this economy. It seems like the kind of thing that you can say “It’s a sign of the times” or “That place was a rip-off anyway” – until your favorite place turns up shut down.

And then, another phenomenon happens – one that I like to call the “Old Yeller Syndrome”. The Old Yeller Syndrome is when you just don’t believe it. Somewhere in the back of your mind and in the pit of your heart, you think it will end differently. Like, tomorrow, I’m going to round the corner and Flurt will be open – lights on, girl behind the counter painting her nails. But it won’t be. Old Yeller dies, Dude. And Flurt did too.

Unfortunately, this was the straw that broke my back. With Flurt’s close, went the last of my optimism, and welcomed the dawn of Sundays with no hangover cure.

The only bright side I can muster? At least the economy can’t shut down Groundhog’s Day. Or can it.