A Weekend of Wallowing

Sometimes I just need to wallow in what my mission president referred to as the hot tub of self-pity. This past weekend was definitely one of those times. But Jamie, you say-- why on earth would YOU need to wallow? You're so blessed! You don't have a controlling mother, no one you know is dying of cancer, you have a car and a place to live and a job that only makes you want to slit your wrists sometimes. Plus, you get to live in America and you get to be a Mormon. With all that and more, why would you possibly need to wallow?

Why, indeed.

All I can say is sometimes the hot tub of self-pity looks warm and alluring and once you dip your toe it isn't too long before you are fully submerged and comfortable so you might as well stay a while. And ask someone to bring you chocolate. Unless you've temporarily lost your mind and agreed to go off sugar. Then you will just stay in even longer.

It all started on Friday. I can't really explain why, but it seems I unintentionally opened a metaphorical closet where all of my unfulfilled hopes and dreams and expectations and other cliched phrases came crashing down on me, leaving me lying on the floor trapped underneath.

On Saturday I was still buried by the aforementioned unfulfilled desires so I did what any experienced wallower would do-- I stayed in bed until 4 in the afternoon, lazily reading sad essays on the Web from other people who had also opened the same metaphorical closet. I wasn't much more productive after 4, although I did get up and wash my hair, which was greasy at that point and distracting me from having a proper wallowing. But, tired of reading about people who were also crushed under the weight of disappointment and regret, I turned to the next best thing: movies depicting characters who had also been gypped by life through no fault of their own.

Today, I unwallowed a little by sitting through three hours of church; although this didn't help me completely dewallow because I made the mistake of noticing the 500 eager, glowing girls and 27 carefree, lazy guys, which proved once again that singles wards are the equivalent of eternal damnation. Like every Sunday, I vowed never to go back (although I'm sure I'll be back again next week) and wallowed some more.

And so, you wonder, in the end what lesson was learned in all of this? What great epiphany did I have? Did I realize that it's important to rise above wallowing? To get out of that hot tub and dry off and go on with life? Perhaps I realized life is a marathon and it's important to keep running so you don't fall down and get trampled by long-legged Kenyans-- and, if you make it to the finish line, you might get a t-shirt and free food.

No, what I took from this weekend was this: wallowing is way better with chocolate.