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'TIS THE SEASON
TO BE CRANKY |
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My wife, who would not make a very good nurse, was rather
unimpressed when I told her a few days ago that I had a disease.
"That's ridiculous," she said when I explained that
I had diagnosed myself with SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder). "You
don't have SAD. You don't have anything. You're fine. You're just making
it up. You're..."
"STOP!" I cried. "YOU'RE MAKING IT
WORSE!"
But she plowed on, dismissing my pleas for mercy. Perhaps
she's insensitive because she knows my disease is curable. In fact, I told
her that I'll be fine, like always, once December 21st rolls around and
the days begin getting longer (I came to this conclusion after exhaustive
research into my self-diagnosis).
"About 5% of people in the United States suffer from
SAD," I explained. "And another 10 to 20% have a mild form. I'm
putting myself in that latter category."
"Glad to hear you're not suggesting you're clinically
depressed," she said. "That's serious stuff. Your disease sounds
more like you're trying to get out of helping me with the Christmas
decorations."
I hate Christmas. I hate buying the tree, decorating it,
going shopping. I hate everything. I have a disease, and it's incurable
until December 21st. Fortunately, Christmas Day comes after that, so I'll
be recovered by then and love everything about it.
Finally, she tried to be sympathetic. It was a Saturday, but
she thought it was worth a try. "Why don't you go to work," she
said in that fake soothing voice. "Being productive always makes you
feel better."
I hate going to work at this time of year. My business
(restaurants and retail stores) caters primarily to tourists, and there
are no tourists in early December. It plays right into my SAD.
"How about golf or tennis," she suggested,
desperate to find a way to get rid of me. "Why don't you set up a
game?"
I looked outside. It was raining. I looked at her. She
probably thought about saying it wasn't going to rain forever but sensed
the futility of trying to cheer me up. She sheepishly left the room before
she could catch my disease.
One more week, I thought. December 21st was right around the
corner. So what if it's the official start of Winter. The days will get
longer each day, and just like in years past, I will rejoice. Until then,
I planned on milking my disease for everything it was worth.
When my wife asked if I wanted to accompany her to a
dinner party with some of her old college chums, I told her I had SAD and
wouldn't be able to attend. It worked beautifully.
When I got a little cranky with some friends during a
political discussion, I blamed SAD. When I snapped at another friend over
some stupid remark he made, I explained it by noting I had diagnosed
myself with Seasonal Affective Disorder.
"No kidding," he exulted. "I have it,
too."
Finally, someone who understands the torment I've been going
through. I'd had just about enough of my wife's Sunnybrook Farm attitude.
I wanted to be around other disease-ridden SAD sufferers.
"This time of year is just awful," said my friend.
"I absolutely hate it."
We were bonding. "I hate it, too," I hissed.
"There's nothing you can do about it except wait it
out," he added.
Naturally, I was suspicious. He could be a fraud, so I
challenged him. "I read that SAD sufferers can sit under a bright
light for 30 minutes a day and that sometimes helps."
He looked at me just the way I wanted him to. "That's
the stupidest thing I ever heard," he replied.
He passed my test. He was in the club. We shook hands and
vowed to be cranky until at least December 21st. We'd do what we want, say
what we want, and eat and drink what we want until then. No one would dare
challenge us, because we had Seasonal Affective Disorder and it was
incurable until the days started getting longer.
"I hate you," he said as he was leaving to go home
to his cheery wife.
It was 4:45 p.m. I watched as my fellow sufferer walked into the
cold, dark night. "I hate you , too," I whispered. |
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