Gaaaaaaahhhh! I can’t take it! I want to bang my head on the wall or lay on the ground and kick my feet. I want to run through the streets screaming but it’s too cold and I’ll just slip on the ice and hurt my ass. I feel like those toddlers who sob and refuse to walk, their legs all rubbery as they hang and drag from the hand that holds them. I know exactly how you feel, kid.
Winter, how I hate you! You ruiner of shoes, you murderer of skin and hair, you dampener of all that is light and happy in the world!
I start out every season with the best of intentions: stock up on Vitamin D, stop wearing sunglasses so as much light as possible filters in. The holiday season finds me decorating the tree and happily wrapping presents. Rat Pack Christmas CD! It’s a Wonderful Life…Merry Christmas, Mister Potter! Honey, have a glass of red wine while I make dinner! Snowstorms are delightful and tramping over snowbanks is excellent exercise. Healthy and happy, ho, ho, ho!
And then without fail, around January 15, a gloom sets over the landscape. Things grow dark and grey. My world looks like the Lorax forest after they over-mined it. The mood is black. I hate every book and television show that crosses my path. I can’t watch this! And I can’t fit into my jeans, they slide over my thighs with difficulty and the button at the top threatens to spring. On top, I have worn the same baggy sweaters in rotation until the sight of them makes me feel queasy and resentful. Snow boots, snow boots, snow boots. Lipstick is for people who give a shit. Fuck you. Jewelry, who needs it? Hair, why wash it when it will look like crap again by the time you get to work? Just wear a hat…again.
Drew is on tour with Walter Shreifels in Europe so it’s just me and the pets. I lay in bed in the morning well past the alarm’s ring. My cats form a circle and stare down at me, confused. I open one eye. Roquefort, who is always worried, looks worried. Chocula, who is more focused, emits a basso “MAOW”, which clearly means “I AM HUNGRY”. Albert gingerly places a fluffy white paw on the closed eye. Please don’t die, mother, it’s time for breakfast. Bastards. If I died in bed they would have no qualms about eating me before sundown.
I climb out of bed, put on my robe haphazardly, the belt trailing on the floor behind me, and I stumble into another day of dragging ass. The idea of going to work is painful, excruciating, and yet somehow must be done. Every molecule in my body rails against putting on the too tight jeans, that same fucking sweater, those godawful snowboots and an ugly hooded jacket one more time to sit in a packed office and do the same tedious, mind-numbing tasks I’ve done nine million times before. But I do it, knowing that this is only one day in another month and a half of days until the darkness lifts, stretching out before me like a jail sentence, neverending and only bearable if you do not try to count the hours.
Dramatic, I know. It’s only winter, fer Chrissake. I don’t have a drug habit, my rent is paid, and I’ve got a pretty nice life. And the bonus of having lived a few years is the luxury of knowing what affects your mood cycles. I know I cycle into a crappy mood every January. The second half of winter fills me with fury. I do not feel inspired to blog, write, or wear anything cute. I want to punch February in the face.
So if you see me out and I appear bleary or confused, irrationally angry or merely somewhat testy, or maybe just less attractive than you remember, please pass by with a gentle nod. Come Springtime I’ll have all kinds of happy bullshit to write about, I’ll be totally interested in what you have to tell me, and my hair will be clean. Until then, all bets are off.
Sent at 5:31 PM on Wednesday
an hour and a half more
I can’t take it
Sent at 5:37 PM on Wednesday
Ingrid: ITS AWESOME
Sent at 5:43 PM on Wednesday
me: the rush of what?
of hating every ticking second?
of feeling every molecule in your body railing against what you are forcing yourself to do, which is sit in a flourescent lit office adding bullshit numbers all day long
as your soul dies a slow and painful death?
Sent at 5:50 PM on Wednesday
Sent at 6:00 PM on Wednesday
me: all the light has drained out of me
I’m going to have to go back to being really goth
Sent at 6:02 PM on Wednesday
me: sorrow and darkness
Sent at 6:04 PM on Wednesday
me: You don’t feel sad for me?
Your martyrdom does not move me at this time
me: that makes me even more of a martyr
Sent at 6:06 PM on Wednesday
me: I just ate 10 mini cupcakes
Sent at 6:22 PM on Wednesday
Ingrid: This is me ignoring you now
Sent at 6:24 PM Wednesday
me: I hate you
Ingrid: I know
Sent at 6:27 PM Wednesday