I want to say something about the bleak days of January. But damn it, that’s a hard thing to do when all you want to do is lie on your couch in a fleece space suit watching Investigation Discovery and tossing Trader Joes’ Cheese puffs into your food hole.
This time of year in Boston is the WORST. The air is punitively cold, and the sun goes down at 4:30 like a traitor. And then, predictably my mind goes to dark places. Well — strike that. In the grand spectrum of human darkness, I’m about a 5, realistically. I mean, I’m never chipper. Nobody has ever accused me of being “cloyingly sweet” or “too happy.” A lot of things get on my nerves. I’m neither a manifesto writer or a violent type. However, I did wish a man dead at a cafe last week for holding his credit card out for the cashier in a way that struck me as pretentious. I stood there in a weird murderous daze for a few beats too long, staring hate-holes into the side of his head with my mind.
That’s not normal. But then again, it’s January, so I don’t feel too bad about it.
I don’t know how to best describe the way I feel during the winter. I’m not sobbing into my beer or stepping into traffic. I’m aware of the good in life. I’m capable of a good laugh. I’m just in a certain state of mind during which I sort of need to separate myself from humanity much of the time, both for my own good, and for the good of humanity. So, you’re welcome. You’re welcome for the weirdness.
When I do get out among the people, I am careful to budget my social time, lest I say something inappropriate over which I will later beat myself up. It’s pre-emptive social awkward bumbling avoidance.
So I’m a little dark. Fine. And I have my version of the blues, which isn’t really that bad, and I’m used to it. Not the blues, exactly — more of a shade of beige. The beiges. They’re not without value or substance, but pokey and annoyingly flat and uninspiring, like an ill-fitting pair of slacks from Talbots. The beiges of January are not sung. They are merely acknowledged and survived.