the ocean

It's that time of year when I get into a little bit of a funk. The holidays are over, winter seems like it will never end, and I don't really want to do anything except lie on the couch and watch Frasier reruns in my sweatpants. Even putting on my coat to take the dog down to the corner so she can do her dirty sinful business seems like way too much effort. (Of course, driving to the Chili's in the suburbs so I can house an entire skillet queso by myself remains no problem.) Sometimes I feel like it would be better to just hibernate until April or so, but then I realize I'd miss out on a lot of meals. And daddy needs his chicken pot pies.

Some years, I've kind of managed to trick myself into not having the funk by, for instance, starting a new job or scheduling a fun trip during this period. It's hard to feel unmotivated when you are under the threat of professional death or, in the case of my Mexico trip, literally death by low-budget Mexican airline. But this is not one of those years. I'm starting to create a couch groove, and it's not even in a size I like.

So I choose to force myself to get up, get out, and do something. I'm not quite at the marching on Washington level, but I am at least getting myself to the gym. And the office. And the occasional bar. Because life may be cold and miserable, but at least it is life, which I have to assume beats the alternative. At least as it was depicted in that Robin Williams movie. Who knew the afterlife would be so overproduced and underdirected?