Failure Tastes Like An Egg Salad Sandwich

I'm grumpy. I am.


I've been fighting a losing battle. The Christmas Blues, The Winter Funk, The December Doldrums ~ whatever you want to call it ~ are upon me now. They have taken hold & with an evil laugh, MWAH-HA-HA-HA! refuse to release their grip.

I've tried. I really have. I've put on my 'pleasant' face {not to be confused with my 'peasant' face which is scrubbed clean & shiny} & went out into the world, singing & visiting & shopping & drinking. I've laughed, don't get me wrong, I've had some laughs. But the persistent dull ache in my forehead announces the presence of a crabbiness that I can no longer hide.

I want to sit in my house, with the door locked, & think about things. I want to lose myself for an hour or two in old episodes of Matlock. I want the phone to be quiet, the doorbell to lose its chime, the weight of obligation to slip silently off my shoulders & slink off into the sunset. I want to hide on the couch under a blanket, reading books & intermittently napping.

I helped serve at a funeral lunch today. I don't think I made a good impression, as I managed to complain bitterly about church duties & crying children to a stranger in the space of 5 minutes.

My façade is slipping. My grip on politeness is loosening. My Christmas happiness is vanishing.

& in the midst of my crabbiness, I forgot Gladys's birthday. I'm sorry, my friend. Have a great day!