2005-05-05

It started with a coworker telling me that I looked tired. Actually, I believe her exact words were, �Burning the candle at both ends� with a wry little smile as if she had scored some major vocal victory over me with her trite saying. Of course, it threw me into a panic and I retreated into the restroom to make sure that the Eye Believe I had put on that morning was doing its trick. And it wasn�t. I was tired that morning; I�d had a very rough time getting up, despite going to bed relatively early and sleeping through the night. A million different possibilities swept through my mind. I had sleep Apnea. I was going to choke to death on my own tongue and die in my sleep. I went back to my desk and contacted my HMO for a test. It was Sister actually that diagnosed the problem. While at lunch she mentioned that I was distracted and rather than bring up the whole Apnea thing I said I was just tired. Well, you look depressed, she replied, stabbing into her quiche.

Depressed is a joke in my family. Depression is something that suburban housewives get when their lives don�t end up like they want them to and thus they escape into pills. Depression is for weak minded individuals without a proper upbringing who want to blame someone for their non success. Depression is something to be exploited by psychologists and therapists. Despite the fact that Sister and I both attend therapy sessions. But that�s different. It�s a neutral party to talk to. To bounce ideas off of, to better ourselves through understanding ourselves. It�s hypocrisy, but it�s also the hypocrisy that gets us through the day.

Such is the game that we play in my family, where merely denying them can change facts.

But actually, it�s true. I think I am depressed. I certainly have the symptoms. Emotional eating. Distancing myself. Withdrawing from friends. Throwing myself into work. And, in true Tell fashion, I intend to talk myself out of it. I was going to shop myself out of it, but emotional shopping is very different than emotional eating, and should never really be done. Except for, say a pick me up after a stressful day. That�s a little reward for managing. No, depressed shopping means one ends up dressing like J-Lo at an awards ceremony and that just feeds on itself. I like to blame depressed shopping on the Emo kids. If they were well adjusted, well, things would be different. And Blink 182 would not have found the audience they did. And poor Hot Topic would have no one to sell to, and then were would we be? American Eagle models all. Okay, so depressed shopping has had benefits.

I have no reason to be down. On myself, or anybody. My life is full. It�s not even really that dull. It keeps me occupied. I�ve always found comfort in my routines, and now they don�t sparkle so much as they used to. Perhaps that is my problem. I should shake things up. Rather than the sophisticated stir that I prefer. And it�s really not a Let�s fake it until we make it kind of thing (another favored saying of Candle Girl, who is a TREAT to sit next to at team building events, let me tell you) And by the weekend I will be out of this funk. I�m sure of it, because, well, I�ve said it. And so I will take greater care selecting my clothing in the morning. And make sure that everything is just so in my world. That the picture shown to the world is as perfect as I can make it. Because no one in a Thomas Pink shirt / tie ensemble, Black wool BR slacks, Adam Derrick boots and � length Burberry trench in grey has time for depression. You can tell because of the Venti Starbucks coffee cup he holds, in his SF Chronicle clasped confidently in his other hand. In the way his blue eyes catch the morning sun and the rakish way his satchel cuts across his chest. In the wonder that he holds for his surroundings, how he is a creature of this environment, is tuned to the beat of it, sharing the city�s soul. And so the facts become rearranged like a whirling Rubics Cube, the jumbled blocks suddenly becoming the puzzle solved.

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