I feel like the poster child for Seasonal Affect Disorder.
Except it’s late spring and I live in the so-called Sunshine State (there’s more of them than just FL). I had a brief glimmer of sun…hope swelled and then faded. The sun popped out and then clouds rolled back in.
You know that scene in When Harry Met Sally, the part where Billy Crystal says he’s going to practise moaning? I’ve been doing that. He was on to something. Moaning feels good. It feels primal. It’s bitching without moving your lips.
Welcome to my misery party. Grab a chair and a chunk of cake–the cake you brought because I sure as hell didn’t make any in my current state (I’m not a food for comfort kind of person), and let’s moan together.
There’s a cure to this gloominess. It’s called a treadmill. It’s right there in the living room, smack in front of my Satellite TV. A few km’s would do me good, lift my spirits, you know? But I’m too damn blahhhh to get off my flat ass, put my shoes on, and go for a walk while watching old episodes of Moonlighting.
This is going to take more than a simple smirk from Bruce Willis. So I’ll just go back to moaning.