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that’s depression.
    Ick. Depression . That’s an ugly word. A serious word. One that implies doctors and medication. I’m not that bad. Or am I? Is how I’m feeling normal? And what is normal anyway?
    I pop the little chocolate bar into my mouth, stare at my wall, and think.
    I think one reason depression (if I should call it that) can be so insidious is because usually it just creeps up on you. Frequently, it’s not one really catastrophic event that brings on a bout of depression—a breakup, a death, a job loss. It’s more like a small snowball rolling downhill, getting bigger and bigger as it descends, until it becomes so gigantic you don’t even know how to get a meltdown started.
    Right now, nothing is wrong in my life. I’m just not … happy. And I haven’t been for quite some time.
    I go back to my bed, sit down cross-legged, and silently stare at the money tree.
    Something must really be wrong with me if I am depressed over getting a money tree. Who wouldn’t want more money?
    Easy. Someone who’s stuck in her job and wants out, but knows that in this economy there is no better job out there, and that she has no other options.
    Okay, maybe I’m in a mild depression. I can snap out of it. It’s nothing that requires medication, just a general lethargic feeling and a sneaking suspicion that there’s more out there in life and I’m missing it.
    I’ve never been to Paris. I’ve always desperately wanted to go, but it’s never been a good time. First, I had college, and college loans. Then graduate school, and more loans. By the time I got my first job as a public-school teacher, I was so in debt that I couldn’t imagine traveling anywhere farther than Fresno.
    I was just starting to see the end of my debt. Was finally putting away a little every month to use toward travel. Finally ready to move on to the next adventure in my life.
    And then I got the pink slip, along with a hint from my principal that this year might be different: this year I may really be let go.
    But here’s my dirty little secret—I kind of hope they do fire me. Then I’ll be forced to try something different. Right now, I’m just stuck.
    It’s weird to feel stuck on the path you worked your ass off to take. I have wanted to be a math teacher since I was in third grade. My parents thought I’d grow out of it, but no. The older I got, the more I wanted to teach children. I wanted to surround myself with their optimism, their zest for life. With the added bonus of having two months off in summer and three weeks off at Christmas. Plus I wanted to be surrounded by math, which is (well, used to be) my version of The New York Times crossword puzzle. Challenging, yet inherently logical.
    I followed my bliss, worked like a madwoman to get what I wanted, and found myself pretty happy with my job and my life for several years.
    And then … I don’t know, my job’s just not doing it for me anymore. I loved it for a really long time, and now I don’t, and I don’t know what to do.
    Then there’s my love life.
    I remember the butterflies I got in college when I met the man of my dreams. (Even if the man was only eighteen.) Mark. Before Jeff, I dated Mark. And for six blissful months we made out every free second we had, slept on top of each other on his couch so we could get alone time away from all of our roommates. Talked on the phone all night during the few hours when we weren’t in the same room with each other. We actually did the “You hang up first” thing on more than one occasion. But then I didn’t want to have sex with him, and we broke up, and I found Jeff (who had no problem not having sex with me), and back then I figured I’d find dozens of men in my future who would make me feel that way again.
    Now, I’m closing in on my thirty-third birthday. There are no butterflies for thirty-three-year-olds. There’s lust, there’s guarded hope for the future, but there’s no feeling as if you’re going to throw up