My galpal calls it “Seasonal Off-Road Disorder”.
Every year after the Christmas digression, I like to invoke my personal hibernate function before I have to power up again and hit the road. I look forward to a couple weeks of feeding off my stored holiday body fat, shallow breathing in my desk cave and setting my metabolic rate to bovine.
And every year, instead of the desired state of fallow, creative receptivity, I become a twitch, a principle dancer in the local St. Vitus Day Troupe.
The energy is good for tackling long-postponed projects. I recently spent hours decommissioning tech-tritus – husks of old burned-out laptops, three pound cell phones, palm pilots still packing the original graffiti stylus and I-phones that sound like baby rattles.
Oozing green virtue, I unsnarled miles of cordage and put it all in a bag for the local Gadgets for Grannies electronics drop-off. When I stood back to admire the cleaned shelf, I noticed the bag of CDs I had collected for the LGBT Center Archives in last year’s cleanup.
Thankfully the Twitter valve is an outlet for any pent-up need to comment on the day’s news: the black bird die-off and the Angry Bird craze; the House reading of the Constitution and direction reading after assemblage; women’s real tears and men’s lower testosterone levels; kidney donating and parole.
Still the twitching. I do impromptu mini-performances for the five and two year olds across the hall. They are unimpressed with my ironic monster. I josh annoyingly with confused deli workers. At dinners with eye-rolling friends, they ask, “Are you trying out new stuff on us?” My dear galpal groans with every obvious pun, witty aside and bad accent, then asks, “When’s your first show?”