Wipe that silly grin off your face!
Well, I’m just a little too happy for my own good. Proof of this is the state of my apartment. It’s a mess and I’m hardly motivated to clean it–despite my foray into organizational bliss when I crafted the now infamous three-page “to clean list”. Nothing motivates me, not even the knowledge that the new semester is rapidly approaching. No, instead of endeavoring to find my inner domestic goddess, I’m opting to sneak away for romantic walks with the lovely IZ. Who needs a clean house when one hand holds a coffee and the other holds the hand of a beautiful man? I ask you, what more do you need?
What I need is a good dose of my typical depressive self. IZ is fond of pointing out that there is a direct correlation between the health of our relationship and the state of our abode. The same can be said of my mental state. I keep trying to pick a fight with the boy–I clean best when miffed. “I’ll show him! You’ll be able to eat off my floors when I’m finished scouring this kitchen. Teach him to call me, difficult!” Short of a good fight, I will just have to settle for a temporary stint in depression. There is no other choice… must think GLUM thoughts. Like this:
I am depressed. And I almost like it. Depression is seductive: it offends and teases, frightens you and draws you in, tempting you with its promise of sweet oblivion, then overwhelming you with a nearly sexual power, squirming past your defenses, dissolving your will, invading the tired spirit so utterly that it becomes difficult to recall that you ever lived without it. . . or to imagine that you might live that way again. With all the guile of Satan himself, depression persuades you that its invasion was all your own idea, that you wanted it all along. It fogs the part of the brain that reasons, that knows right and wrong. It captures you with its warm, guilty, hateful pleasures, and, worst of all, it become familiar. All at once, you find yourself in thrall to the very thing that most terrifies you. Your work slides, your friendships slide, your marriage slides, but you scarcely notice: to be depressed is to be half in love with disaster. Stephen L. Carter: The Emperor of Ocean Park.
In my case, my apartment doesn’t slide, it gets thoroughly cleaned. Yet, lately, try as I might, I just can’t do it. Maybe because the beautiful man just made me a perfect Mocha.
The clean apartment will have to wait.
