It’s Just a Phase

I go through phases where I’m obsessed with some specific thing or some aspect of my life. Then after a period, when the novelty has worn off, I search for a replacement.

In November, I was addicted to Clementines. Over a few days, while sitting at my desk, I worked my way through a crate. My fingertips smelled like orange. A collection of discarded peels piled up in my trashcan. By the end of the month, I’d had enough citrus to stave off scurvy for a year. And so, I moved onto pomegranates. Yes, December was all about pomegranate seeds and the various ways I could include them in a meal.

My obsessive nature isn’t limited to food. In January, I lapsed into hibernation mode. And it was worse than usual. I’m content eating out alone on a Friday night. “Table for one,” I comfortably request to the hostess. Once seated, I place my New Yorker on the table and peruse the menu, deciding between spicy tuna with avocado or spicy scallop. But I haven’t even been doing this. Instead, I’ve been going to the gym and then picking up take-out Thai or relying on a frozen dinner already in the refrigerator. I was still keeping up with people on the phone and via email. I just wasn’t making much effort on the social front.

“You’re dressed up,” a coworker noted this morning when she saw me at the fax machine. “Going somewhere?”

“Yeah, there’s a brainstorming meeting for a new group to support the Ronald McDonald House. Figured I should make a little effort, look professional.”

And I did, blowing my hair straight, wearing a pencil skirt, debuting a bold necklace.

Just before lunch, as I waded through some piles at work, I took a break to email a friend, a friend I haven’t seen in probably two years. He lives in the city but I’ve been busy, he’s been busy. For whatever reason, our paths haven’t crossed.

“Hey, I’m in West Philly for a meeting tonight. Any interest in drinks or watching me eat? I’ll be done around nine,” I sent in an email.

“Definitely! Let me know where you’re thinking,” he wrote back.

Listen, hibernation can be good. It gives you the space to regroup, provides you with long stretches of time to tackle larger than life projects. Case in point, I spent the last few weeks writing up a storm. My thesis now hovers near the one-hundred page mark, a mere twenty-five shy of the requirement. But Saturday night, the cabin fever of this lifestyle finally got to me.

Eating some homemade guacamole, listening to the plows slide piles of snow elsewhere, I realized I was done with hibernating. The novelty of seclusion had worn off. My isolation phase had passed. Instead of embracing the quiet, enjoying the space, I felt punchy. It was so bad, I considered all of the different colors I could paint my living room. People, I hate everything about paint, from picking out the color to rolling it on the wall.

Without skipping a beat, I opened my laptop and booked flights for a Sarasota trip, making sure my visit overlapped with Leslie and the kids. Then I bought tickets for a concert, finalized plans for Valentine’s Day, researched what plays I want to see, and started planning my annual springtime visit to hang with my favorite DC based girls. Before I knew it, my calendar was loaded up with social activities, all of which make me squeal with delight. So I guess you could so I was on to my next phase.