Column: A SAD time of the year
What happened to that day the temperature was in the forties?
Of all the weeks to drop four quarts of oil in my driveway, why did my Camry pick this one?
I could go on and on about the recent past and the present.
If I had my way, I would be far more comfortable sleeping the day away and staying up all night with little to no responsibility and what comes with such, little to no pride.
It's happened before, this seasonal affective disorder and I don't even believe in it.
It seems these days anytime there is something wrong with a person it's lobbed into the swampy regions of some kind of disorder or condition.
Well, there's a disorder to my condition, let me tell you.
But it's nothing compared to winter's past. Take 2009 for example, stranded in an old apartment in downtown Fargo above all the collective barstools, pipes clanging, employment wavering with no real reason to live.
I spent the entire month of December in bed. No lie. Day and night I slumbered, awoke, maybe ate something and just tried to wish the coming hours away.
I don't like the term bi-polar, for, when amalgamating the medical term with the scientific term as it relates to our planet, it brings to mind one thing: cold all over. I realize this is some odd language construct that only means something to me, like quadruple entendres, but bear with me.
That spring, as the 2009 snow melted, Fargo and Moorhead began to flood. I had the second floor apartment to survive in but found myself house sitting a north side two-bedroom home.
This at least got me out of bed to pump the water from the basement and garage into the yard to another series of pumps where I joined the rest of the neighbors in pouring our excess down the alleyway and into, sooner or later, the seething Red River of the North.
Seething. Yeah, that's it. That's what I'm doing.
On the bright side, to start the week, I didn't wake up to a Monday in Minneapolis-St. Paul traffic with a foot of snow.
I'm not all about being negative.
Tell that to my shrink.
Frankly, if it was up to me, I'd take a week off of work, get the car fixed and drive to Pennsylvania just to kick that Punxsutawney groundhog in the teeth.
I'm ready for the golf course, the tennis court, the pontoon and my arsenal of shorts and flip flops.
Until then, beware that weird sports writer if you see him. He's as foul as a shanked line drive taking out his windshield this spring.
I may have just come up with a new disease. Perhaps, this is what is really wrong with me.
I'm suffering from SAF: seasonal affective foreshadowing.