This depression thing is getting a bit silly. I have spent the last two hours playing the melancholiest piano works by none other than that consumptive force of gloom, Mr. Frederic Chopin. I selected precisely nothing in a major key, and nothing with a pace above largo. Finally stopped when I realized I was halfway through the goddamned Funeral March.
(Even if you don't know that you know the Funeral March, you do, in fact, know it. It is the melodramatic music of doom in every Hanna-Barbera cartoon. Dum, dum, da-dum, DUM, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. )
It's one thing to allow myself to really feel this sadness, but it's another thing to wallow in it like a thick, stinky mud bath. To borrow my beloved grandmother's favorite expression, which she picked up as a seventy-year-old living in Guadalajara, it has become mui ridiculo. Just ask the neighbors, who shut their windows about halfway into my performance.
As of this minute, my mental state appears to be on the upswing: I just rediscovered my appetite, which had been hiding out in the adrenal gland control room for a week or so. This, I am remembering, is how I used to stay so slim, back in the bad old days when I was unreasonably unhappy. Since then I have added several Jeff Pounds, as I like to think of them. The Pounds of Happiness.
Guess I'll make room for a few more; after all, we have three kinds of cheese, good sourdough and an apple pie for dinner, and that's worth a least a few millimeters of extra rumpage.