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Gaylord Goforth's Guide to Being SAD (Spring Edition)

 



My Dear Spring Flingers and Flunkers:

Just when you feel you’ve made it through winter’s gray, emotionally underlit Motel 6 room with faulty plumbing and no WiFi, along comes spring, kicking down the door with blooming blossoms and the overconfidence that you’ll feel better immediately.

The sun creeps its way through your windows like a cheery guest who doesn’t know when to leave. Birds twitter at your window, daring you to come outside. Don’t tempt me, blue jay, unless you’re willing to part with some feathers. I hear avian chic will be big this fall. 

The world rebrands itself in pastels as if sponsored by a macaron. Everywhere you go, people are smiling, jogging, and planting flowers like they have something to prove to Saint Martha Stewart of Bedford Farm. 

What about you? You’re tired. You’re puffy. You’re pissed off. You’ve sneezed twenty times in a row and blown your nose so much you briefly saw God, who looked a lot like Ryan Gosling. You are experiencing what I call "Seasonal Affective Disorder: Spring Edition," also known as “bloomers' remorse." 

Spring arrives, and all the flowery people have expectations. You’re supposed to emerge from your winter cocoon revitalized, glowing, motivated, and possibly fluent in French. If you didn’t work on enhancing your “la joie de vivre” in the darkness of winter, don’t even expect to get invited to NYC Fashion Week. Hang your highlights in shame and unclutch your Louis Vuitton. 

Instead, you’ve emerged with a low-battery warning. You’re questionably functional. There will be no trips to the garden center. No peonies will light your fire. It’s as if the entire season is a lifestyle influencer whispering, “Have you tried being a better version of yourself?”

You feel your hackles rise and snap back at the annoying fairies of spring, "Yes, Tinkerbella. I’ve tried. It requires the energy I’m reserving for reheating my leftovers.” 

So what do you do when the days grow longer, the trees are greener, and friends invite you to outdoor functions? 

1.     First, listen to your therapist. Own your malaise. Don’t let any other needy friend take credit for it. We’re looking at you, fair-weather Karen. You don’t have to become a flowering bush overnight. In fact, keep your head out of the bush. Be a slightly droopy daffodil. Any progress is still progress, even if you spring forth drooling from your late-morning nap. 

2.     Take your meds. An antidepressant can change a wallflower into a magnificent, muscular magnolia. Xanax blends nicely with an Aperol Spritz if you’re at a barbecue that includes toddlers and an above-ground pool. Remember, an invitation to cocktails on a veranda in the Hamptons is on its way as soon as you meet someone from the Hamptons, not the Hampton Inn. 

3.     Re-enter society gradually. Keep your dance card open. You don’t need to rush to every event. Be circumspect about accepting invitations. Do it for the fun of the function. Aunt Beulah’s “Deviled Egg Festival” should be crossed off your calendar, unless you have a demonic need to smell sulfur. Anxiety-driven obligation is what you’re trying to pack away like the ugly Coogi sweater you should have discarded in the 90s. You know it gives off “Cosby” vibes. That’s why no one will let you mix them a cocktail. 

4.     Transformation takes time. You have no deadline to shed your emotional winter of discontent. If you’re not ready to flower, wow them with your stamen or pistil in the heat of July. That’s when it’s time to shoot off those fireworks and twerk your sparkler. 

5.     You be the season. Growth is like a well-accessorized outfit. It’s deeply personal and occasionally confusing. Like, how many big gold bracelets are too “Spartacus?” So if you find yourself not glowing, not thriving, and not ready to buy linen off the rack, remember: You are still here. You’re still becoming. You are, against all odds and allergens, unfolding. 

You can move yourself from SAD to GLAD (Gorgeous, Luscious, Adorably Delicious). You know, just like moi. Don’t forget, they’re all seasons of love, darling. 

You’re my biggest fan,

Gaylord Goforth

 

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