Me: “I just haven’t been feeling great for the past month. I’m exhausted and unmotivated and just want to hibernate.”
Therapist: “Wine or booze?”
Me: “Oh my god, yes! Please! Both!”
Therapist: “Excuse me?”
Therapist: “I said ‘winter blues?'”
Therapist: “What did you think I said?”
Just thought you were offering an ACTUAL CONCRETE SOLUTION FOR ONCE.
Me: “So, I’m already having a really hard time this winter. I think I’m mildly depressed. I might need to up my meds. And I know what you’re going to say– that I don’t look depressed. That I look energetic and healthy. But don’t be fooled. That’s just because I’m trying REALLY HARD not to look depressed.”
Therapist: “No, I actually think you do look depressed.”
Therapist: “You don’t look well. For you.”
Me: “I see.”
Therapist: “You look tired.”
Me: “Uh huh.”
Therapist: “Your eyes look a bit sunken in.”
Me: “So the makeup’s not working…”
Therapist: “There’s a grayness to you.”
Therapist: “And you’re slouching.”
Me: “I think that’s just a thing I do…”
Therapist: “And is that ranch dressing on your shirt?”
Me: “Ok enough.”
So much for trying hard.
“You know what I’ve found really helps? Getting dressed in the morning.”
— fellow work-from-homer, on how to combat winter blues.
Because sometimes, on the first day of winter, you need a list.
This exercise really backfired.
I shaved my legs!
Discussing possible strategies for dealing with my seasonal depression….
Therapist: “Maybe start with some small, achievable actions. For example, shave your legs– because I know you, and I know you haven’t shaved them since summer ended.”
Me: “But if I do that now, then what will I get Eric for our wedding day?”
Therapist (sighs): “The gift of knowing he is marrying someone who regularly shaves her legs?”
Me: “So…lies. You’re saying I should get him lies.”
Therapist: <head in hands >
I really need some reassurance here because I totally feel like the Grinch who stole childhood. But this was justified, right?
Background: kid across the hall constantly plays soccer in the hallway. Literally uses people’s apartment doors as goals. Now that the weather is getting colder, these indoor soccer sessions are increasing, and lasting for hours. No, I have no idea why he isn’t in school. He’s at least 11 years old.
So parents out there, it’s ok that I went and ruined this kid’s fun, correct? I’m not a mean old cranky neighbor lady, right? It was justified, don’t you think?*
*In case the leading questions didn’t make this obvious, I am seeking agreement responses only. This is not a situation where I am interested in diverse opinions. Solely looking to avoid guilt tears as I sit here typing common-sore aligned math problems beneath the glow of my therapy lamp.
Welp. Tis the season.
“No. No. It’s too early for this.”
— my doorman, to Eric, pointing at me wearing my Canada Goose knee-length puffy coat, Uggs, ear warmers, and gloves.
I’m fucking cold.