The daylight is shrinking. As I drive home at night, it’s as if nature is slowly pushing down on the dimmer switch with each passing day.
Usually, this time of year is a drag for me. Metabolism becomes more slothful, my brain a bit foggier. Diet changes. I go from slurpy gazpacho in the summer to the thick stews that made up Buffalo’s winter cuisine. Activity level tanks. Time on the elliptical replaced by sprawling on the couch.
I guess some would call it Seasonal Affective Disorder. I hate that term. We seem to pathologize everything these days. So what if I tend to be a bit sadder, a tad more slothful. Is that a “disorder?” I think not.
Something seems better this year, however. It’s pretty clear that the more I sleep, the better I feel. Summer meant seven hours of sleep; now I’m clocking nine. I go to bed earlier, but wake up feeling fresher, and mentally sharper without the gloom of depression.
