Sometimes I get kind of down. But in this context, sometimes is closer to Denny’s hours of operation rather than an afternoon of sulking over not knowing what to have for lunch.
Usually I deal with it by opening up a lot of very serious documents with the intention to bust a productivity nut all over their little square faces. Then, I shuffle through iTunes for six hours. And that’s how I keep this little tugboat of depression in motion.
There are times, however, when I stage an intervention. On myself. See, the thing about staging your own intervention is that it’s the worst idea ever. For me it involves a lot of bargain bin compliments like, “You’re really good at fishing things out of the garbage disposal” and telling myself that, while Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car” is a good song, I should probably distance myself from it for a while. At least until I can get through it without feeling envious.
After I’m done listening to “Everybody Hurts” (loopholes, people), I buy myself something. I don’t necessarily subscribe to the Sex and the City endorsed philosophy that buying shoes will inevitably attract men who will buy you even more shoes, but I do subscribe to candy. Which is why I bought 84 ounces of peanut M&M’s. And a giant jar to put them in.
The other side of my face isn't visible because that's where I hide my cleft palate and club foot
At first I was like, “Target, you losers, I can’t believe you just let me walk out of here with the makings of the best plan ever crafted.”
Then I got home. I washed the jar. I laid out the contents of my rehabilitation in front of me. The high began to wear off and I found myself transitioning into a paranoia-induced panic attack. I worried that I might eat all of them, kind of like Saturn did with his children but way less mythological because this was real.
I poured them into the jar thinking that, since I sometimes find chip clips to be too burdensome, they’d be safe there. Of course, I double-fisted the jar a few times before fastening the lid, but after that something weird happened. I didn’t go back for more. It just sat there next to the television, completely unmolested.
The M&M’s outnumbered me in a big way and my refusal to rectify that was a refusal to create superficial problems for myself in order to avoid my actual problems. M&M nausea is easy. Self-acceptance is hard.
I still haven’t figured anything out, but at the very least, I have four pounds of sub-standard chocolate reminding me that I need to.
{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
That’s amazing composition in the photo. And I’m glad a pile of sub-standard chocolate can actually be helpful in an odd way.
I love reading about your little “projects”. You’re like the Martha Stewart of innocuous DIY stand-alone hobby orphans. Orphans in that your projects are usually not related in anyway to an actual hobby.
Wait… maybe candy is slowly becoming a hobby.