Fire, flood and all manner of pestilence is sweeping this great nation. Corruption is rife in the highest level of government. However stop the press because Mumabulous has come down by a severe case of the blahs. You’re probably familiar with this condition. Its the way I describe that vague feeling of malaise and listlessness that zaps your life force. Everything is too much effort. Its not depression. My interpretation of depression is an irrational sense that your life is entirely messed up and its entirely your fault. When you’ve got the blahs, you know that that life is generally good and that you are not completely useless. Its just that you can’t seem to get your groove on – as it were.
This is a big, exciting week for us with P1 going out to represent Team Abulous at big school. I’m going to get a bit more time to myself and it should be making me feel refreshed and renewed. Instead I feel hung over without the fun of having been drunk the night before. My blahs are masked apprehension because in the words of Flight of the Conchords – “its business time”. I can no longer use school holidays as an excuse for inaction. Its time to pull my finger out of its cosy nook and get on with some real work. I’ll be back to helping out with my husband’s software business. He’s got two projects lined up for me because he is extremely generous that way. At the same time I’m parading myself in front of various employers hoping that one day some one will recognize my awesomeness. Plus, I’ve still got my regular gig with Bub Hub which requires me to be at least partially sensible. So far I doubt I’m reaching that KPI.
The only real cure for the blahs is to get your head down and get things done. I’ve tried various other methods this week only to find them moderately effective at best. I gave the holy trinity of chocolate, ice cream and wine a “red hot go” but the anxiety about calories inhaled sent me into a deeper rut.
Taking some rare time out to watch TV failed to enhance my mood. Perhaps Misfits was a poor choice of program considering. Its a black comedy with a high weekly body count. However this week a much loved major character was killed off. This provoked in me similar emotions to when Molly died on A Country Practice, only the Misfits dude was a petty criminal with the power to raise the dead. (Its a show about a bunch of petty criminals who have mysterious acquired quirky superpowers).
Fortunately were TV failed mindless consumerism triumphed. A trip to Westfield yielded a new bag and a cute sun hat. There is nothing comparable to the feeling of a virgin bag. Its insides are not yet corrupted by sand, stray band-aids, ancient shopping receipts and alien fungal species. Its shiny flawless surface is like candy to the eye and I’m still all a quiver with excitement over the cute mobile phone compartment. Never again will I fumble for my phone. If you wish to call Fass – now is the time. I’m at the ready.
Tomorrow is a brand new day and I’ve got the bag to match. I’m planning on knuckling down, getting my teeth into some serious work and mixing my metaphors at the same time. Yet before I do I’m going to blatantly rip off Faux Fuchsia* with photographs from my garden because as well as the blahs I’ve been infected by Faux Fuchsia Fever (FFF).
What do you do to chase the blahs away.
* If you are unfamiliar with Faux Fuchsia her work can be found here: http://fauxfuchsiastyle.blogspot.com.au/