Post-holiday depression

I am feeling bleeeeeeaakkk. Very bleeeaaaaak. Reality is biting. I am back in the real world and I have no focus. I go to the gym, I take the Sprogs to school, I fiddle on my blog. But is that enough? Is that all life is about? Shouldn’t there be something more? You know, making the world a better place, helping others, doing something meaningful … ohhhh, I feel tired just thinking about it. I’m too miserable to be selfless. (Maybe that’s the problem? Hmmmm …  I’ll ponder that some other time.) My life is perfectly fine, quite wonderful, really. I am well-fed (a little too well-fed), I recently shopped myself stupid in Hawaii, I have a gorgeous family … I have no right to feel so flat. Husband warned me as I headed to school drop-off/the gym yesterday not to moan to the other mums because they would think I was an outrageous whinger. So I moaned to my hairdresser instead, while getting my roots done (wow, I had no idea hair colouring was so time consuming and expensive, no wonder I’ve paid so much off my mortgage over the years, I haven’t had astronomical hairdressing bills bankrupting me). My hairdresser was very sympathetic, totally understanding about my anxiety and not wanting to talk about the holiday to anyone. (But, as my gym buddies pointed out, they didn’t need to ask, they’d read it all on my blog.) Although, when I segued into my woe-is-me “I’m beyond botox, I must to go straight to plastic surgery” rant, even my hairdresser started rolling his eyes. He suggested someone just shoot me, if things were that bad. Because, of course, they’re not that bad. I just have a mild case of post-holiday depression. It will pass. I will settle back into my daily routine. I will stop holiday drinking. I will stop holiday eating. I will start real-world exercising. I will start real-world socialising. I will be a better person. I will stop hating myself (quite so much). I will be fine. I will. It’s probably just jet-lag, or PMT, or both. It will pass.

PS It doesn’t help that our house smells like a mushroom farm. How much did it rain while we were away? I put on my mouldy pyjamas on Sunday night, crawled into my mouldy bed and thought eeeeewwwww, gross. Welcome home.