Just this other day, a friend was saying something about being depressed most of the time in a twenty-four hour day, and the damned thing having something to do with age. Now that gets me thinking a little. Why do we look at getting depressed as a bad thing? Or as something forlorn? Can’t it be as insignificant as a bruise or a pimple?
If we, these vroom-vrooming-towards thirty-and-beyond- and- therefore-sad women are wistful most of the time, can’t we just look at it as a really insignificant frame of mind? But there is a problem in that too. I treated depression as trifling, and ended up cramming crisps, cyclopean chunks of coffee cake, and cheese cookies last evening. Maybe this whole brouhaha about depression, or for that matter, my attempt to dilute the feeling isn’t worth it at all. I should just lay back and try one or all of the following:
- Life dipped in Jojoba
- Life dipped in cash
- Life dipped in french fries and cold cuts
- Life dipped in FIFA
- Life dipped in cash and therefore Harrods!
- Life dipped in….I’m running out of life-dipped-ins….maybe fellow bloggers can help?
Tagging KG, Scribbler, and Yada. Get back fast with your lists.
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