When summer turns to fall, I turn toward my light box like a seasonally affected sunflower toward the last remaining rays of the sun.
My light box is called The Happy Lite. The goofy bucktooth spelling of "lite" reminds me of ladies "nite" in my early 20s in the '90s when I drank the chocolatini. It was an interesting time, the revival of swing and the Squirrel Nut Zippers and Big Bad Voodoo Daddy to which I toe-tapped.
But I digress from my topic, which as yet has no associated mixed drink. It's a shame really. It's Seasonal Affective Disorder. It's a name that cries out for something gin-based.
It's a drag. I drag myself through, turning on the Happy Lite every morning at 6:30 am from September to March, each morning a blinding, pupil-decreasing moment like the sound of an enthusiastic 8-year-old playing a drum set and into this light I stare, unblinking, lizard-like.
Though its advertising says I will, I do not look like this. First of all I'm non-blonde. And I never wear all-white ensembles, or bare my belly. I never look like I am about to take flight on the well-illuminated wings of joy. Tra laaaaaa!
I look more like this. And boy, do I wish I had a similar plodding, British English voice-over.