I haven't had the energy or the desire to do even the basics: clean the house, pick up the toys, do the laundry, unload the dishwasher, clean the dishes, walk the dog. Take down the Christmas tree and decorations that have been up since November 1st, 2009.
Oh, and cook. I don't cook even when I am feeling on top of the world. Forget about it when I am in the weeds.
The children have given to foraging for food amongst the spilled cereal on the living room floor, the day old pizza boxes on the stove, and the fruit bowl on the kitchen table, full of fruit that I was supposed to be eating because THE ME I WANNA BE loves to eat fruit. Eventually, the me I wanna be realized she was fighting a losing battle, and got the hell outta Dodge.
The only effort I was making was for the children because they do need to eat and bathe and be looked after. But it felt like a monumental effort to even get out of bed.
After one particularly crap day, I flopped into my un-made smelly bed, rolled onto my side, and looked down at what was once a swatch of creamy vacuumed carpeting, but was now covered in empty snack boxes, gossip rags, 47 inches of brown dog hair (it's her bi-annual shedding cycle), used tissues, half-eaten crayons, empty two liters of Coke and pizza crusts.
I thought to myself, I am three days away from appearing on an episode of Hoarders. And I'm not even a single gay male living alone with mother issues or a Southern woman clothed only in Snuggies and saturated adult diapers with 72 cats (68 of which are dead and rotting within the bowels of the home) and too-many-to-count unfinished knitting and crochet projects. What is happening to me?
And then from amidst the ruin, I see a glimmer of silver. And it whispers to me,
Pick me up and hold me.
It was my Coach purse.
The one I got for Christmas.The one of my dreams.
She had come to save me.
That night I snuggled with her warm soft leather in my arms and I woke more refreshed and full of energy than I had in months.
Wouldn't you know it, she'd gotten up with the baby that night.
Soon she was hustling me into the shower before the kids even woke up. She said,
If you look good, you do good! And if you do good, you feel good! And if you feel good, you CAN be the you you wanna be!
By God, I think she's on to something.
Next thing I knew...
she was helping me take down the Christmas tree.
And we were scrubbing Oreo cookie stains off the couch.
Reading the same books.
And suddenly I realized, she wasn't just a beautiful Coach purse.
She was a beautiful friend (slash delusional distraction).
Thank you my Coach purse, for not only saving my life but for showing me how great life with a Coach purse as your best friend can be.
Pretty darn great.
Post Script: Although she is my best friend, she is also a constant theft hazard. I can no longer just leave my purse in the cart as I wander through the produce at Wal-mart. She must always be hanging from my forearm. Which, of course, makes her exactly like a best friend, but also sort of an annoyance.
Who else has the winter blahs or post Christmas slash holiday blues? What are your remedies? And no, you can't borrow my Coach purse to cure yourself. That only works in blogs.