I’ve been away from my online mat space for too long.  Now it feels good to satisfy my urge to write.

I had started a post about a month ago about how I believe the Incredible Hulk’s character is based on a perimenopausal woman, but I’ll save that one for a later date.

It’s incredibly disturbing to me that we’re ten days into Halloween month (also known as October), and I haven’t begun decorating.  See, Halloween is my favorite holiday.  In fact, I don’t understand why it’s not a national holiday.  I’d rather have Halloween off than, say, Labor Day or Presidents Day.

I’m one of those people who shops for decorations every year.  I mean, there’s always something new and fabulous, like flashing LED skulls, motion-activated ghouls that jitter and shriek, or a Jack Skellington bobble-head.  At the same time, though, I have decorations lovingly carried forward from my childhood.  I hate throwing the old stuff away–but cardboard doesn’t last forever.  And let’s face it:  it’s not nearly as exciting as things that light up, flash, make scary noises, or shake.

Husband and I go all-out with the outdoor decorations.  We have a pumpkin-carving kit, and choose a different design for our jack-o-lantern every year.

  

We have a fog machine, a strobe light, luminaries, strings and strings of LEDs, giant spiders . . . the list goes on.  We even hook up outdoor speakers and broadcast scary sounds for trick-or-treat.  Then, later in the evening, we usually broadcast It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown or The Nightmare Before Christmas.

 

One year we dressed our blind pug as anatomically correct Yoda.

Yes, I do love Halloween.  But here it is, October 10th, and I haven’t even brought the bins in from the shed.  This is unprecedented.  I’m usually counting down the last week of September, because I won’t allow decorations to go up before October 1.  The first weekend in October is ordinarily allocated for the sole purpose of decorating indoors and out.

So what’s the problem this year?  I’ve asked myself that too.  Ladies and gentlemen, I’m depressed.  It’s that simple.  It’s the same reason I can’t bring myself to walk Happy Dog every day

or plant bulbs or weed my flower beds or clean up the dog shit in the backyard or keep the house clean or attend yoga practice.  I’m. Just. Fucking. Depressed.

On top of that, I’m even starting to feel mildly agoraphobic.  Although I’m an introvert, I’m highly skilled at what I call “professional extroversion.”  I used to be eloquent, confident and persuasive.  Now I find myself making sure there’s no one around before I bring in the mail or take the trash and recyclables out to the curb.  Job interviews have become excruciating.  Even the thought of interacting with anyone at yoga practice makes me uncomfortable.

Three months of not working, at home alone every day with two cats (sleep all day) and one über-ehthusiastic puppy (wants constant attention), applying for job after job after job, and wondering if the bills are going to be paid has turned me into a perimenopausal, reclusive hag.  Wait, I was already perimenopausal.  And a hag.  But now I’m a recluse as well.  (I think I just had an idea for this year’s Halloween costume.)

Yup.  That looks about right.

I haven’t been depressed for a long, long time.  And now I seem to be wallowing in it.  Yes, I know it’s a choice.  I know I could be unemployed and happy just as easily.  That’s what Abraham says, anyway.  But for some reason, I choose to feel like this.  I must be getting something out of it, or I’d choose to feel different–right?

Right?

Maybe husband will take matters into his own hands and fetch the bins from the shed this weekend.  All I need is a little push.

Valerie photo courtesy Act III Communications