I can’t help it. Whether it’s tryptophan withdrawal or disgust at eating massive quantities of foods I never eat during the year, I am suffering from post Thanksgiving blues. I wander around the house. Sit down for a few minutes. Get up. Wander a bit. Start a book. Put it down. It’s like I’ve been demagnetized and can’t lock onto anything.
Dishes pile up. Laundry piles up. Richard keeps asking me, “What’s your mood?” “What’s on your mind?” “Are you ok?” My mood is flat; my mind is floating; and yeah, I’m ok, in the global sense. That is, I have nothing to be particularly unhappy about.
This Thanksgiving, we did what we always do – gather with the friends who have become family. Some we see regularly; others once a year around the Thanksgiving table. We talk about life events, travel, favorite books and movies, political opinions, and lawyer jokes. Nothing new. Good friends and good times – a regular Hallmark card.
There’s such purpose in Thanksgiving. In the food, the table, the wines, the companionship. And sometime, during the drive home late Thursday night, the purpose dissipates. The focus shifts to email and meetings and snow tires and telemarketers. The ordinary moves back in.
Richard sees me staring at nothing. He says, “Do you know that when I ask you what your mood is or if you’re ok or just say ‘Hi babe’– that I’m stroking you with words? I’m making contact.” I didn’t know that. I feel better.