Been feeling a sorry for myself of late. I do not like myself very much for this because I generally appreciate being me, which contrary to popular belief, seems rather lucky when one considers how remote the evolutionary chances of life are in the first place. Sure – I may be spending my time precariously peering into the ever-threatening ravine of my impending midlife crisis, but at least it is a human life (who ‘d fancy being a shit-eating fly?). And secondly to be born human in a part of the world which is neither war-torn, famine-stricken or comparatively too oppressive to one’s civil liberties, is luckier still. I suppose the odd bit of melancholy is a naturally human trait but even so, how could someone in my fortunate position possibly have the audacity to grumble without feeling guilty?
It’s a funny thing when you hit that level of depression. Well.. maybe funny is the wrong word, but you get what I mean. It’s weird how you can knowingly realise how irrational and wasteful your mood might be in a greater context, and yet precious little can lift it. I did try. I went to the gym in an attempt to get active and feel better about myself. But even this didn’t work. I felt just as miserable. Only now I had added fatigue to the misery too. And this did not leave me well equipped to attend the party I had been invited to in the evening. I couldn’t have felt more party-phobic if I tried. I could not even use my usual tactic of burying melancholy under a river of alcohol because I was driving. And prior to my arrival there were many things about the party which I did not relish the thought of. The main ones being...
1) Dancing. Being invited to dance was the last thing I wanted to happen to me. I mean, when have you ever seen anything as absurd as a depressed man with the sudden urge to burst into dance (Robbie Williams aside, obviously).
2) Other people having a bloody good time - which just makes you feel more incongruous in your environment, continually emphasising just how out of place you feel, like a kindly village Vicar stumbling in to a particularly racy Ann Summers party.
3) Getting your ears assaulted by ‘cheery’ party music so horribly idioglossic it almost makes you temporarily jealous of the shit-eating fly, because at least the shit-eating fly can simply sneak out the window unnoticed and escape this aural hell.
4) Being obliged into small talk, where the simple question “How are you?” becomes a moral scruple, as you deny your unfettered misery just to keep the cheery atmosphere flowing, whilst another little piece inside of your soul dies, ebbed away by the lies that your mouth is forced to tell to people you like and who don’t deserve to be lied to because they are nice enough to bother enquiring about your welfare in the first place.
In fact I could only think of one thing about the party that seemed remotely compatible with my gloomy mindset, and that was the inevitable big plate of sausage rolls on the buffet table. The little mashed pig-deaths wrapped in coats of pastry seemed poetically resonant to my dour mood and equally as attractive to my mouth and belly. But the short, mild thrill of sausage rolls seemed of inconsequential compensational value when compared to the hours ahead spent trying to force a demeanour of polite bonhomie through a heavy-hearted mood of self-loathing.
But of course, as is so often the case with these things, the party was absolutely fine. Sure, I spent the first obligatory hour hanging round looking a bit awkward, but this is pretty much par for the course and overall I am glad I made the effort to oblige the invitation I was honoured to have received. Everyone was really nice. And possibly as a result of my mental fragility, I even experienced strange new emotional responses to things. For instance, buying people drinks became a genuine pleasure rather than a polite gesture done with a hidden and repressed chagrin.
