Don't you hate it when you just feel bleah?
I feel bleah. For no reason. Just...bleah. Tired, enervated, aimless, disinterested. A little wobbly, emotionally, like a small wind could push me over into depression.
I know there are strategies for coping with the bleahs, like Gratitude, and Remembering, and Doing Kind Deeds. I'm trying to work up the energy to try one of them--but in a vicious-cycle kind of way, the bleahs have drained me of the energy and effort it takes to employ those strategies.
I had this conversation when I dropped off the youngest Peevies this morning:
Mrs. Pitt: How are you?
Mrs. Pitt: I'm sorry.
Mrs. Pitt: Your hair looks cute!
Me, laughing: Thank you. I haven't brushed it in three days.
Mrs. Pitt: At least you're smiling now!
The Peevie household is no longer in crisis, so that's not the problem. We're coping with the thigh-high cast for another week, and hoping that the doc will switch C. Peevie to a weight-bearing cast after that.
We're coping with homework times three. I'm working on a couple of small projects, trying to dig up some new business, and nagging my non- or slow-paying clients to pay up.
Mr. Peevie is five days out from Marathon Day, and is feeling pretty good about his chances for winning the whole thing. Go, Mr. Peevie! I'm proud of him for being so committed; and also? In the throes of my self-centered bleahtitude, I can't wait for it to be over.
But nothing in our lives is hugely disturbing; there's really nothing to complain about, in relative, Western terms. My bleahs are not even hormonal, I don't think--at least, not this week. It's just one of those hopefully brief seasons of bleah. I probably just need a salty, crunchy snack.
OK, that's enough self-absorption for one day. Stay tuned for slightly more edifying posts about critical thinking, bosses, and a lying child.