Another year has ticked by and I’ve just come out of my annual, celebratory depression that accompanies every holiday season … and every one of my birthdays … and everytime I look in the mirror without a shirt on … and anytime I hear Khloe Kardashian’s name.  My moodiness over the Yule-tide season has become so consistent and reliable that I’m thinking about theming next year’s depression.  How about Antebellum South?  Or 1930′s Herbert Hoover?

Thirty four years of my life have gone by and if I were to weigh the “feel” of how long things have been, I’d say that the first 18 years felt like 18 years and the next 16 felt like a long weekend.  The one thing that I can count on is that the older I get the faster time moves and I hate it.  I really do.

In between moping around the house for the past four weeks, I’ve been thinking on why I do this to myself each year.  I’d say it’s a three-part answer. [Read Column]