I am in a funk and I can’t say for certain why. It feels temporary, but real. If I mentioned the reason it was set off, I’d appear like a third grade girl, so I’m keeping mum there. I suspect there is possibly a deeper reason that I am simply not grasping. Or maybe that third grade girl thing is a wound a little deeper than I ever acknowledged. I may tap on it later.
I know coming home to my leftover pizza being gone last night created a much more dramatic reaction that had I not been feeling funky. I almost cried.
This doesn’t feel like depression, but it mimics it, like depressions sad little sister; following it around, trying to do the same thing depression does, in a really lame way. It almost brings forth a bubble of laughter thinking of it in those terms. It’s like I am actually too lazy to be depressed. Instead I am on a slow treadmill of boredom and —- well, I’m very underwhelmed. Like the shallow philosopher in me is looking around and thinking, “Really? This is it?” I’ve attained many of the goals I wanted to achieve and I think — unrealistically — I’d like to trade my prize in please. The goals, honestly what’s the point? I scrambled and I persevered and those goals did not hand me the key to secret happiness. But it’s not even happiness, it’s like I suspected Nirvana was around the corner if I just followed the instructions.
The truth is I have my head up above water enough to know that this is temporary, and that my minor funk is nothing more than a cocktail of hormones, excessive inner thoughts, a full moon, too much laundry to be done, and petulant boredom. I could drag out the morbid and sad and mundane and create something to make myself feel worse. I could also Pollyanna the shit out of my life and remind myself how good I have it.
Or I can just sit back and ride this murky wave, while humming, “Play that funky music white girl. Play that funky music riiiiiight.”