It be official, kids. I have no holiday spirit. While the world around me evolves towards the holidays and my peers are alight with ho-ho-hos, talk of exotic vacations and what-not, I am distinctly detached from the season at hand. It could be March for all I care. And judging from the steep trajectory of this year's annual bout of Seasonal Affective Disorder, my body and brain chemicals seem to believe it's March as well. Normally it takes several months of sunlight deprivation and cold weather for me to feel this grouchy and carbohydrate-addicted. I can only imagine how I will feel when late winter actually does rear its grey, overcast head.
Try as I might to affect a positive attitude, all I really feel capable of is whining and complaining.
Of course, spending a weekend confronted with one's inadequacies really doesn't help. Perhaps my ego had grown too large as a result of all those dates and successes at work. Perhaps the universe thought I needed to be knocked down a peg or two. Well, mission accomplished, universe. Nice work.
On Friday, I discovered that my checking account was overdrawn by 33 dollars, a feat of financial mismanagement that I haven't achieved in several years. With eight dollars in cash in my wallet I knew the only way I'd get through the weekend would be to resort to the contents of the large vase of change sitting on my dresser. Silver lining of current situation? Said vase had grown a bit fuller recently as a result of my poker winnings a few weeks ago.
So while I could have been on a date on Friday with the most annoying man on the planet, I instead spent several hours sorting my coin collection into piles of various denominations and watching Gilmore Girls re-runs. Glamorous, I know.
On Saturday I walked the several pounds of coins to the Coinstar machine in the Adams Morgan Harris Teeter and learned that thanks to my sophisticated gambling abilities, I had approx 60 dollars in silvery, coppery goodness. Here, I silently thanked dear Grandpa-pa up in heaven for introducing me to poker when I was six, a game he used to teach me while he nursed a stiff Manhattan and I my Shirley Temple, effectively setting me up for a boozy future of whiskey and gambling. Nice going, Gramps.
I returned home, my purse many pounds lighter, my mind slightly eased by the influx of cash to my wallet. It was time to prepare for the dinner party I had been invited to. Oh, but wait. I did not know what time it started or if it was safe to walk to the hostess's home after dark from the metro--both key pieces of information. I contacted my hostess and waited for her response. And waited. And waited some more. And watched a really bad movie on TV, which was so horrid I am way too embarrassed to share any more details. And waited. And then got rather pissed off. I mean, why invite somebody to dinner if you're going to ignore them and not include details that would enable them to actually attend your dinner party? What sort of passive aggressive dis-invitation is that?
Angry, I realized my attendance at said dinner wasn't happening and I heated a frozen organic burrito and prepared to meet a friend out for drinks. Poor, and inexplicably infused with too much self confidence, I decided to don my most low-cut, cleavage-revealing dress. I was on a mission for free drinks. Oh, this is never a good idea. I had forgotten that strategizing for free drinks is as counter- productive to one's cause as shaving one's legs and cleaning one's apartment in anticipation of sex. Silly me. Sex only happens when one's leg's resemble the rain forest and one has a colony of dust bunnies living in every corner of one's home. Likewise, free drinks only seem to happen when I'm dressed in something unbelievably dull like an old tee shirt and jeans. Perhaps the site of my impressive mammaries is too intimidating for most DC men to handle. Since the self esteem reserves are a little low today, this is what I choose to believe. Of course, if they're going to impede my ability to find correct sized bras and wear button down shirts, they could at least be good for something. What good are breasts if they can't buy you a pint of Stella every now and then? But I digress.
The rest of the evening was as disapointing as the first half of the weekend. What was once my favorite dive bar has been given a lame Pottery Barn meets sports bar makeover. Some stupid son-of-a-Congressman (as in, his daddy holds office but also as in, son-of-a-Congressman is now my favorite new insult) hogged my friend's attention all night and there were no cute boys to converse with and even if there were, I was too grouchy to bother at that point). My friend did end up paying for my beers, although it had more to do with her recent bonus check at work and nothing to do with my breasts. Then I took a cab home and vented at my driver for several miles. He took it in great stride so I dipped into the weekend's meager cash reserves and rewarded him with a nice tip.
The rest of the weekend transpired with little incident. I spent the last of my dollars for dinner at Founding Farmers, where my experience was mixed. While I appreciated the laid-back service and the fact that they allowed us to linger, I question the establishment's overall approach. Sourcing from small farms is awesome. As is organic. What's more important though (in my mind) is the concept of "local" and "seasonal" a view not shared by the powers behind FF. My burger, while composed of grass-fed beef and therefore quite tasty, was garnished by a lame, pulpy, flavorless slice of tomato. It's clearly not tomato season in the northeast. Why bother? But...the glass of Oak Creek Cabernet I enjoyed with my meal more than made up for the tomato atrocity and with several more menu items I am interested in experiencing, I plan on giving FF a second, and perhaps even a third chance.
So perhaps the weekend wasn't a total waste after all. I have four and a half days left before two+ weeks of vacation. I will dedicate my week to calm, healthy living. Three balanced, healthy meals a day; Pilates classes and frequent dates with the treadmill at the gym. I will be paid today and I will finish my holiday shopping. I will not fret over my lack of dates for New Years Eve and the threat of a blustery, lonely January. All will be fine because I shall will it to be such.
Ho, ho, ho.