I’ve been sitting on my bed thinking about how melancholic I feel. There is no reason for my melancholy. Overall, I have great balance in my life.
This melancholic-for-no-reason feeling has been lingering for a few weeks. I have tried to stave it off by buying fancy new shoes, emailing Honda dealers to see who can give us the best deal on a new car (I am bored of that now and have lost my desire to purchase one), browsing CraigsList for a better apartment (there isn’t one for under $3000/month), browsing the Black Friday circulars for special holiday deals (all avoided), picking up books and movies and not getting through the first 5 minutes.
This is a common feeling in my life. As soon as everything is perfect, I start to look for something “more”. Something “different”. Something that will challenge me and make me grow and give me great adventurous tales to tell. But usually what happens is that when I make that change, I find that not only have I left something behind that I really loved, the stress of the adjustment almost leaves me too paralyzed to enjoy the change of which I dreamed. And then finally, I settle, only to find myself melancholic and longing for that something else.
Sometimes, I think, I am merely trying to avoid myself — trying to avoid the basic humdrummery and drudgery of life. Oh sure, there is always beauty. But when you see the beauty enough, it eventually becomes unobserved.
So I’ve been siting on the bed feeling melancholic, looking for an outlet. I tried to write, but it gave me a headache. I transferred the photos from the holiday weekend from the camera to the computer, but I could not find the motivation to upload them to the blog, flickr, or Facebook. I wondered if I should maybe put the laundry away and tidy things up before the week begins. But then I figured that my melancholic nothingness would still be there when I finished. So what good would that do? Only more things in my life would be in order.
My husband, the Ukrainian, thinks this melancholic endless searching for something all comes from the lack of a baby in our lives. Perhaps. Maybe I’ve done enough in my relatively-young life that it’s time to bring another into the world. But somehow, I feel like I will always want more.
Funny, I was only able to write this because the Ukrainian interrupted my melancholic thoughts. I was sitting alone on the bed when he entered the room to interrupt me. But my melancholy did not want to be interrupted. I told him to leave, to get back to work. I just wanted to be alone. I told him I would like a “Do Not Disturb” sign for our bedroom door as he had been interrupting me all day (I had to do some work for my job, which I did while sitting on the bed).
But now, I think of him interrupting me. He is so very cute. Not emotionally-distant at all. The perfect anecdote to my moody irrational self. That search for whatever it is that makes want something more will not go away, but with the Ukrainian at my side, perhaps I will find the tenaciousness necessary to figure out what it is without changing a thing.