I haven’t written in a while. My sincere apologies. I’m sure you’ve been suffering greatly, perhaps to the point of despair, without my words of hilarity and wisdom gracing your inbox.
Why the drought? Well, the truth is I’ve been feeling rather…meh.
If you’re a clinical depression sufferer, as I am, you know that it can be tough at times to tease apart “real” sadness/stress/existential dread and the kind that is a result of your brain chemistry starting to go on the fritz. Add in perimenopausal hormone fluctuations, and who knows what the hell is biological vs. situational?
So, yeah, maybe my low-ish mood is a bit chemically enhanced. But also: I genuinely am feeling sad and discombobulated, adjusting to this empty nest thing. Life just doesn’t feel like a “new normal” yet. I’m sure that having the kids home for the summer in a few weeks will be another whole mindf*ck. That rogue lake, carrying me out and in, out and in.
And it’s not just the kids’ actual physical absence that is throwing me off. It’s the whole fact of no longer being in the parenting children phase of life. Now, I’m in the phase I always thought of as, well, old. I’m my parents now! I make cultural references The Youth of Today don’t get! I put up a bird feeder a couple of weeks ago! A BIRD FEEDER.
So, yeah, I’m kind of….not great.
Therefore I can’t adequately express what a relief and reprieve it was to experience a few days of actual, unadulterated joy this past weekend. Like, blissed out, soul-deep, umami-level-satisfying joy. The kind of joy where you feel a little high even when you’re not.
How did this happen? Well. I went to a reunion of a my college a capella group. Yes, I was an a capella nerd. I sang in the Ephlats—the oldest mixed-gender a capella group at Williams College—my freshman through junior years. It was probably the most treasured aspects of my time in college. (OK, fine, that and meeting my husband.)
Last weekend, a mass quantity of Ephlats—from the octogenarian men of the 1960s who founded the group when the school was men-only, to the collagen-rich current undergrad cohort—descended upon the Purple Valley to sing our throats out. Not sure about the other cohorts, but by Sunday, our 90s gang all sounded like we smoked a pack a day.
In the lead-up to the weekend, I worried that given my iffy emotional state, being back on campus would unleash a flood of unbearable nostalgia and maybe even outright grief. (My youth! Gone forevermore! Alack!)
But no. To my utter delight, all I felt was gratitude for having had the chance to spend four years in such a beautiful place, singing with my fellow nerds. And joy—such total joy to be laughing and singing together with old friends, most of whom I’m not regularly in touch with. Being all together, it was like hardly any time had passed. As long as you didn’t look too closely at our waistlines or hairlines.
We sang a bunch of the old songs we used to sing together (including “Softly,” which had me tearing up on stage), and also learned a new one: The most illustrious member of our squad, Kristen Anderson-Lopez, wrote a little ditty you may have heard of called Let it Go. We sang the crap out of that song.
There’s actually a (social)-scientific explanation for why it all felt so good.
I was an anthropology/sociology major in college, and one of my favorite concepts I encountered was that of “collective effervescence.” The term, coined by Émile Durkheim, refers to that intense, unified, almost euphoric feeling you get when you gather with lots of other people for a shared purpose. You may have experienced it at a concert (I certainly did when I was 15! #BillyJoel4Eva) or a sporting event or a protest.
I definitely got that effervescent feeling when I sang with my fellow ‘phlats this weekend. And I’m pretty sure a lot of them did, too.
I also always feel the effervescence when I watch the Boston Marathon—which happened to take place on Monday, the day after I got back from the reunion.
For the second year in a row, we watched at a gathering hotsted by some friends whose house is right on the marathon route, just before the ten-mile mark. In addition to general cheering and clapping, the sillier attendees among us shout out whatever individual identification people have on their bibs or shirts—their name, their state, their college, their nationality. Canadians get a sung “Oh Canada!” and the French get “Vive La France!” If there’s no visible name or identifying mark, there’s always “Go hot pink shorts person!” or “You got this, tie-dye wig guy!” Sometimes we chant someone’s name (Brett! Brett! Brett! Brett!). Occasionally when we call out someone’s name with extra enthusiam, they slow down, confused, and try to figure out if we’re someone they know. (We’re not. Sorry! Off you go!)
One of the great things about watching the race from these particular friends’ house is that their neighbor sits out on his porch and plays the drums—like, a full-on drum kit—for the entire time. This time, for whatever reason—maybe my leftover effervescence from all the a capella communing—I felt inspired to dance and Rockette-kick to the beat for much of the time we were there. (My poor embarrassed husband. Not only is his wife an a capella freak, but a marathon sidelines dancing weirdo.)
I danced for so long and hard that I racked up more than 8,000 steps. My legs and feet were actually sore the next day, and kind of still are? (I didn’t have the appropriate footwear.) It was great cardio. A few runners suggested I join them. Lots gave me thumbs-ups and claps. A couple stopped briefly to dance with me. Effervescence off the charts, baby!
I wish I could say that the effect of all this joy was permanent; that I am now cured of my lowkey malaise. Alas, sadly, most of the fizz has all fizzled out. BUT! I have the memory of it, which is nice. And I know that there will be other opportunities to experience it again.
It would probably be good for me to seek out those opportunities more actively. It would probably be good for all of us.
Here’s to you, Monsieur Durkheim. (And to Scott, Tom, Andy, Emily, Patty, Jon, Anne Marie, Kristen, Sarah, Sara, Anne, Liz, Nifer, Bob, Marc, Rachel, Phoebe, Nat, Chris, MJ, and Mike.)
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