The existential virus. Here are two symptoms: 1) You’re in your house, surrounded by beautiful things and great stuff you normally love to do, but you can’t bring yourself to feel one single ounce of interest. 2) (If you’re a woman) You check your calendar, certain you miscalculated and that it must be PMS. And it’s not.
—Pam the Beancounter
Dear friends, I knew it wasn’t all in my head, and it wasn’t just me. Here, there and everywhere, the best of us suddenly find ourselves confounded, overwhelmed, and sad. Ennui runs rampant. The world is full of socks to knit, comics to draw, novels to write and pies to bake, and yet we find ourselves sitting in our living rooms, or in a caff somewhere, staring blankly at television sets while some loudmouth tells us that Michael Phelps should be casting his head down in shame for only taking a bronze in an event that was not his strong suit, and in which he participated only for the chance to compete against Ian Thorpe. Coffee has no fragrance. Thai food has no snap.
Something must be done. Radical measures must be taken, particularly the kind of radical measures that reflect spontaneity (if you’re being kind) and/or poor impulse control (if you’re not), as well as the willingness to go any distance to find the cure. Specifically, it involves the willingness to go to a site like Orbitz or Travelocity, search for airfares between your home and the homes of your friends, and goggle at the realization that you can travel thousands of miles for roughly the cost of a pair of boots. We’re not talking stylish, impractical, make-me-write-bad-checks boots, either. We’re talking about sturdy, functional, suitable-for-Buffalo-and-Minneapolis-winters boots.
Dear citizens of Snowballville, CO, secure your doors and lock up your husbands/fathers/sons/really nice guys that any girl would be lucky to get, because I’m headed your way Labor Day weekend. My research assistant and hostess-with-the-mostest will be the lovely Snowball, who has generously offered to let me bunk with her, the famous B and G, the also-famous Mom of Snowball and their collective menagerie. Together she and I will be driving hither and yon, cleaning cat hair off our shirts, fortifying ourselves at the fabulous local delicatessen/bakery and giving smoldering glances to local musicians. To quote the theme from Roger Ramjet, for these adventures, just be sure to stay tuned to this station.