It's Not the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

I really hate this time of year.

I start my downward spiral every year in mid-October, when I can no longer kid myself that daylight savings time might be extended through the winter. The shorter days, the relatively cold weather, the impending holidays, and my chronic inability to dress for winter in a way that's fashionable or even adequate all contribute to my malaise.

Unfortunately, external factors usually dictate how bad my autumnal doldrums will be, and this year is proving to be difficult. The split with Dear Husband, my friend K's health problems, and Bob's sad demise are all contributing to a chronic case of even worse-than-usual pre-winter blues.

Luckily there are bright spots that I can bask in like unexpected shafts of sunlight. My friendship with A nurtures and fulfills me in ways that I never imagined. The staples of my usually satisfying life - sobriety, friendship, and dogs - continue to sustain me. And on the shallow side, my new car continues to give me the kind of pleasure I should never get from material things but still do.

But I'm still struggling. The late afternoons, when it already seems to be getting dark at 3 pm, are the worst. It's just that time of year when I want to wrap myself in velvet and hibernate until spring. Robert Frost was wrong about April being the cruelest month. It's definitely December.