A Rant.

I know I promised a deluge of enthralling, magical, etc. etc. posts. I know. And as the apartment gradually fell back into order (it's still not perfect, but I'm just going to have to live with that until after we get back from the honeymoon. This is something I'M TRYING VERY HARD NOT TO OBSESS OVER BUT I HAVE A FEELING IT'S NOT WORKING), it seemed that I would finally have time to write said deluge. But I just haven't felt like writing over the last few days. In fact, I haven't felt like doing anything over the last few days, which, historically, is a BAD SIGN for Mary Frances. When I get depressed, I tend just to hole up and ignore the world and watch lots of terrible television. And I firmly believe that there is both a time and a place for holing up and ignoring the world and watching lots of terrible television (hello I watched three seasons of The Hills online in a weekend. Also, I watched every episode of The Real Housewives of New York City, and yes, it was just as awful as it looked...but also delicious), but after a few straight days of Design on a Dime (a show which bothers me on principle-redesigning someone's patio for $3000 is NOT A DIME), something has got to change. I cannot go to bed tonight feeling as defeated and low and worthless as I have the past two nights. I just can't.

When I think about reasons behind this sudden funk, I can't think of any big one--just a million little ones. I think underlying everything is that awful feeling of anticlimax after the wedding. While the day was great, and the weekend was fantastic, part of me is still sad, and also indignant that I nursed Preston's baby (he wanted this wedding, pas moi) for OVER A YEAR, and that it's just over. In a flash. A lovely, touching, luminous flash, but still. A flash. Also, something else that bothers me about Project Wedding: why do so many people insist on believing that I am not capable of organizing this event? I bet 50% of the people I talked to at the wedding said, "Oh your mother's done a wonderful job at organizing all this." And then my blood would start to boil and my eyes would start to spit fire from the sockets. I love my Mom, and she was almost always there when I needed here, but I organized the wedding. I made the decisions--chose the sites, designed the invitations, addressed all the Save the Dates, had calligraphy done, picked the menu, talked to vendors, chose the dresses, paid for gifts, etc.--and it annoys me that people either don't think I'm capable of pulling off such an event, or that because I live in West End Richmond, it was to be expected that I would make my mother do everything (she does have a life, and a job, and other children). But it does feel fantastic to unload all of that!

So aside from feeling in limbo after the wedding, why else am I depressed (lite)? Part of it is cabin fever, I'm sure. I got out yesterday to go to Target, but HERE is a big flashing red light that something's wrong with Mary Frances. I did not buy ANYTHING fun at Target. I did not EVEN LOOK. I should have called therapy as soon as I left the building. Seriously. I bought a hamper, picture frames, fabric softener, all purpose cleanser, and 4 picture frames (which totalled $110, WTF). And that IS IT. I went into Target with a list, and actually stuck to it. This is never a good sign. ANYWAYS, in an effort to shake off this cabin fever, I'm headed to Starbuck's to write thank you notes, and then to the mall to buy a few birthday gifts for friends. And if the weather decides not to suck, on a long walk with Callie.

Part of it is that I haven't been able to work out because, to celebrate our one week anniversary, a German Shepherd bit my arm and Preston and I spent all afternoon in the ER! If that's not romance, I don't know what its. So my arm is a lot better--just a little sore, and with a permanent bite mark in my arm. Very attractive. Also, the antiobiotic I'm on is giving me nasty side effects. NASTY. And very, very uncomfortable. That's all I'm saying.

OK, that's all I'm going to burden you with right now. But MAN it felt so good actually to verbalize the fact that I've been unhappy over the last couple of days.

Last night, after I came in from doing our sixth load of laundry (another reason), I was so exhausted, and felt so worthless that I started to cry. Preston was downstairs taking our recycling, which meant that Callie had been alone for about ten minutes. And when I came into the door, feeling immensely sorry for myself, weepy and sniffly and sleepy, Callie bounded into the main room, tongue hanging out the side of her mouth, tail wagging in circles, and jumped straight up into the air in front of me. And to see Callie be that excited, to slobber all over my legs and to jump up with nothing but joy--that is why I will always have a dog. Because just like that, she made me laugh through my tears, and I felt myself shift. I could feel my body wanting to pull itself out of this funk.

I'm not saying that dogs are a cure-all for depression. AT ALL. As someone who has spent much time in therapy, much money on antidepressants, and much time being depressed (almost always having a dog by my side), if (when, most likely) it gets serious again, I'll RUN not walk to my therapist. But for these sorts of days, when I really just need to rant and cry and snap out of it, there's no one I'd rather slobber on me than Callie.