Here Comes the Sun!

Must they insult us as well?

I've been feeling a little blue lately.

Shuffling around the house glumly, I haven't been myself for a while.

I didn't realize how down I've been until Seth suggested that we go to a local Indian restaurant for dinner.

Seth does not like Indian food...therefore we do not go. I have to wait until a friend is available or I visit the boys in DC where Seth, out-numbered and physically intimidated, will resentfully agree.

Once there, he will grudgingly push lamb curry through the tiny button hole he makes his mouth into when he doesn't like his food. Admitting tiny pieces one by one, he watches us clapping our Nan about joyfully, chomping vindaloos, biryanis and tikas to our hearts content.

Seth only invites me out for Indian if he is worried about me. Usually, I am in the car and waiting, tail a-wag, before he's finished speaking but this time I declined. Going out would have meant putting on shoes, for God sake. Too much work.

The two rooms in which I spend most of my time, the family room  (euphemism for dungeon basement) and the kitchen, are both very dark, allowing in minimal natural light. Plus it's been a difficult winter with lots of enforced indoor time if you are a delicate flower such as myself. I realized that I may have a touch of "seasonal affective disorder."

Scientifically speaking, SAD (clever bastards) is a syndrome in which your brain doesn't produce enough "happy juice." Since there is naturally less sunshine in the winter and we spend more time indoors unless we are lumberjacks (who have other problems--sharpening axes, finding a flattering plaid,etc), many of us experience this disorder.

So, a few days ago I decided to do something to increase the happy juice production in my brain....but what?

God forbid I should take a walk--that would involve the actual movement of limbs and might improve my general health, stimulate my metabolism and lower my blood pressure. No walk.

Instead, I shoveled off a small spot on the back deck, wrapped myself in a series of sweatshirt jackets, slapped sunscreen on my age spots, put bags from Target over my shoes, said, "See ya, wouldn't want to be be ya" to Buzzy (he hates it when I say that) and went to sit in the sunshine for a half hour.

 I wore no hat so the sun could shine directly upon my happy gland. Again, sorry for being so technical.

I did this for three days in a row. And I'll be damned if I haven't been feeling a little better.

Combining this strategy with putting a firm limit on how much news I watch during the day and how many books about the holocaust I read (who knew there were so many), I may be back to normal..... just in time for my spring blues.

Spring blues are very tricky because they are a result of the joy at watching the earth naturally renew itself after months of dormancy. First one feels almost unbearably happy but then remembering that happiness is both fleeting and unsustainable, plunges into total despair. Summer blues, based almost entirely upon how one's legs look in a skort*, can be problematic, as well.

I think I'm heading back to the basement.

* I just received not one but two phonecalls from men telling me that I misspelled "skirt." All the women know that I meant to write skort. I have included a link so that men can learn what a skort is.