Sad Songs Say So Much

Recently, I listened to a rather insightful This American Life podcast about break ups. "After a break up, you just stare at what happened," the show's host, Ira Glass, astutely observes in the introduction.

I think this could be said for any unwelcome event in life that comes out of nowhere and knocks you flat on the ground, leaving you shaking and desperate to figure out what exactly did-- or did not-- happen that so drastically changed things.

The show continues with an amusing and honest analysis of how break up songs simultaneously help the healing and perpetuate the hurting after you've been through a break up.

"Rather than listening to songs for pleasure, I began listening to songs for pain. I listened to break up songs to feel better, and by better, I mean worse, " explains writer Starlee Kline as she describes her post-breakup trauma, which led to an unhealthy obsession with Phil Collins and an attempt to write her own break up song.

She continues, "There is something satisfying in listening to sad songs. . . they make you feel less alone with your crazy thoughts. . .they don't judge you, they understand you. They don't tell you to try online dating or that you're better off without him. They tell you what you do want to hear, that you're worse of without him because that's how you feel."

But what nailed it for me was when she said, "I wanted to wallow-- big time, deeply and with the least amount of perspective as possible."

I have not experienced a break up recently (you actually have to date for that, which requires a whole different set of sad of songs-- found on the unrequited love playlist) but this week has been a Thelma and Louise kind of week-- the kind that could end with me in the car, driving off a cliff. Ok, so I wouldn't do that.

But something that wasn't broken last week crumbled this week and even though I should have seen it coming (and possibly did see it coming), I didn't prevent it and now I don't know how to fix it.

And the only thing that has been making me feel better (and by better, I mean worse), has been sad music. I've been listening to Kelly Clarkson's "Sober" and Linkin Park's "Waiting for the End" almost nonstop, mixed in with DCFC's "Tiny Vessels" and Broken Bells' "Sailing to Nowhere." The music understands me, I tell myself. I can't drink. Sex is out of the question (again, hard when there's no dating), and I don't want to go to the store and buy ice cream.

So music it is.

And maybe going for a run, reading my scriptures or talking with a good friend would be better choices-- but I still prefer the catharsis pathetically sad songs offer me. Because sometimes I don't want to be told to try something else or that I'm better off. Sometimes I really do need to wallow with the least amount of perspective as possible.

What sad songs do you like to listen to when you're "staring at what happened" after something unexpected and painful happens?

Encounters With the Soccer Lovin' Kind

On Saturday, I attended my first Real Salt Lake game. This is because I'm trying to branch out and discover new interests which will then make me a well-balanced person. According to all of the Zen articles I regularly read, this is what we should all be striving for.

So my friend T and I bought tickets and headed to the game to discover that we were only about three rows up from the field. What does this mean? That's right! We were smack in the middle of the Soccer Lovin' Crowd. Everyone around us was wearing Real Salt Lake jerseys and scarves-- the scarves confused me at first because they made me feel like I had stepped into a Harry Potter movie-- but then I remembered that I was actually at a sporting event (silly me, how could I forget?) and I snapped out of the magic moment.

It was an exciting game. For everyone else because they were actually watching the game. For me because the Soccer Lovin' Crowd enthralled me. These people were passionate about their soccer-- not only did they have the scarves to prove it but they knew the players' names: "That was dull footwork, Tony!"

But the thing about soccer is this: the most exciting parts are when one of the teams actually comes sort of close to scoring a goal. Which means they run up and down the field and pass the ball to each other and then maybe, just MAYBE, one player takes the risk and manages to kick the ball toward the goal. Then the crowd goes wild and everyone stands up and starts cheering on Tony or whoever and THEN, just when you think somebody might actually score a point during the 90-minute game, a player with great calves from the opposing team who has been standing there the whole time suddenly decides to block the ball and kick it down the field. And everyone sits down and yells at Tony for his dull footwork.

As I witnessed this, I couldn't help but wonder how 16,000 fans (that's how many attended on Saturday night) aren't completely bummed out by so many letdowns. I mean, at least in basketball or football points are scored fairly regularly. But in soccer, the crowd gets a rush from the HOPE of a point being scored. As I observed this phenomenon, I wondered if I would be more content with my life if I applied the soccer principle-- if merely the HOPE of a date or a dream job or a hot fudge sundae or a European vacation would be as satisfying as if it actually happened.

I don't know. Maybe I will have to consult more Zen articles.

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.

Things that Must Go

I know it's almost Thanksgiving but rather than write a post where I list my many blessings, I'm taking a different approach this year. Instead, I'm going to share my list of things that must go. Sometimes we just need to rant. And, let's face it: this list is going to be much more fun to read than a saccharine gratitude list would be anyway.

1. I-15 construction. Really. It never goes away. The orange barrels are multiplying and replenishing the freeway as I type this.

2. The excessive use of the word "like." I find it, like, so hard, like, to follow, like what people are, like, saying when they, like, use the word "like" 65 times while, like, making their point.

3. Fannypacks (and the people who wear them). Need I say more?

4. Multi-level marketing schemes. Particularly ones that involve magic juice. If it sounds too good to be true, it is. If it says it can cure anything because of special berries from some obscure rain forest in South America, RUN.

5. Movie remakes and sequels. I'm so over it. Surely, SOMEONE in Hollywood has an original idea. And, just a thought-- how did Alvin and the Chipmunks merit a "squeakuel"? What does that say about society?

6. U2. As one of my co-workers told me the other day (and I readily agreed), it is the worst multi-platinum band in the history of ever.

7. Bad reality TV. And, what's "real" about reality TV anyway?

8. Mullets (and the people who have them). Again, need I say more?

9. Spiders. Ew.

10. Infomercials. Why?

11. People who drive UNDER the speed limit. Speed up, grandma. Trust me, you're more of a traffic hazard in that blue Buick when you're going 50 on the freeway than if you would just risk it and go 65.

12. Nevada. It's a form of exile.

13. Airplane food. Not that you really get any because now you have to pay for it. But when you're starving on a 7-hour flight, sometimes you forget and shell out $10 for a tiny meal that barely resembles food. Then you wish you hadn't.

14. Thomas Kincaide paintings. Trite.

15. Cat calendars. Or dog calendars for that matter. Let's just say pet calendars in general.

16. Poorly-written love stories involving teenage vampires, werewolves and other dark creatures. It's okay to like these stories when you are 12. But once you move past 12, give something substantial a try. I know that sounds harsh but really, try it. You might like it.

17. The Footprints in the Sand poem. If you love this, I don't know what to say. There just aren't words.

18. Celery. 'Tis a pointless vegetable.

19. Winter. It's depressing. Just typing the word made me sad inside.

20. The Tea Party movement.

These are just a few of my least favorite things. Hope you found it enjoyable.

What's on your list of things that must go?

Dad: 10 Things I Love About You

Yesterday my dad celebrated his birthday. I was thinking about how much I appreciate him and it occurred to me that I ought to let him know. After, all he isn't getting any younger! (Ha ha)

The post is late because we didn't have internet until now. Sorry about that. But here are 10 things I love about you, Dad:

1. I'm glad you are a democrat. You risk your life every day in Utah County.

2. You love to read. What more can I say?

3. Your appreciation of music. I'm glad you are playing the guitar again.

4. You are a great teacher. Thanks for the "teaching moments."

5. Who doesn't love an animal-lover?

6. Your seminary humor. Ok, so most of the time it makes me groan. But I appreciate that you can laugh at life.

7. Thanks for being an example of faith and steadiness. I admire your ability to rise above challenges and disappointments with dignity and grace.

8. You see the best in others even when they don't deserve it. Sometimes that includes me. Thanks for that.

9. You ran a 10k. That shows guts. Way to go.

10. Along with being a great dad, you're a great friend. I'm grateful for that.

There are many more things that I love about you. These are just a few. Thanks for always being there. Happy birthday!

Love,

JL

The Zen of Summer

It's been months since my last post. This is partly because I am sick of staring at a computer screen after a long day at work and so I don't want to when I get home, and partly because I have been too busy enjoying my summer to bother to write. But I recently read an article about the importance of documenting one's life so here goes. . .

It struck me today that it is almost the end of summer. And even though I have seen 27 other summers end and therefore should be used to it, I felt a little sad.

It has been one of the best summers I've had in a long time. Nothing amazing has really happened. I did not spend the summer backpacking across Europe. I didn't win a lot of money or meet a fabulous guy (I wish).

It was a great summer because I was liberated by the realization that the only person who places limitations on me is, well, me. And that realization is the key to moving beyond those limitations.

It's the best thing I've learned lately. And I've been enjoying life immensely since I've tried things that I previously told myself I couldn't do, like running a 10k.

I wouldn't go as far as to say I now believe ANYTHING is possible-- let's be honest, I'm too rational to think that. But I've definitely come to appreciate first-hand the overwhelming sense of accomplishment that comes with defying odds and pushing past imaginary or real limits.

It's a lesson I hope to always remember.

An Attitude of Gratitude (A New Deseret Book Title)

Lately I have been feeling extremely blessed. In fact, during the past few weeks, while I am in the middle of performing some menial task – laundry, driving to work, making dinner – a sudden awareness of and deep appreciation for the things and people I have in my life comes out of nowhere and hits me with the force of a meteor.

It sounds cheesy, I know. I promise I'm not trying to sound like Chicken Soup for the Soul or an Ensign article.

But truly, I am blessed and when I feel it so intensely, it's difficult for me to understand why I don't always remember it. In fact, I am ashamed to say there are many times when I refuse to notice the tender mercies; they are always there, but sometimes I don't want to acknowledge them.

WARNING: THIS NEXT PART IS EXTREMELY CHEESY. PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

The list of things I am grateful for could fill the blogosphere, but I do want to say that I am constantly inspired by the people around me. I've been thinking about each good friend that I have and how his/her individual gifts have helped me. One friend is particularly kind and thoughtful and truly exemplifies living a service-oriented life. Another friend has patiently stuck by me through my not-so-great moments during and since my mission and she always makes me laugh. Yet another friend has shown me it's okay to take risks. And another one portrays a quiet steadiness of character no matter what is going on that I truly admire. Of course there are more and I could go on.

But you get the point. To all of my good friends, I say thank you for looking past my faults, putting up with me when I have not been a good friend in return, forgiving me and sticking by me. You know who you are. Thank you.

And, of course, while I'm on the cheese-mobile headed straight to the sentimental shelves of Deseret Book, I have to give a shout out to my family. I love to spend time with them. I love laughing with my sisters and talking about tv shows and music and what's going on in their lives. My life wouldn't be complete without either of them.

I absolutely adore both of my parents. We are all difficult to love sometimes and I'm glad they still manage even when I fall into that category. I enjoy talking to both of them and I value my relationship with them more than pretty much anything else. Dad, thanks for laughing out loud with me and talking about politics and taking care of "my" senile cat. Mom, thanks for playing word games with me (that I always lose), discussing books with me and being my best friend.

In short, as grateful as I am for my iPod, I recognize that much of the reason my life has meaning and joy is because of the interesting and cool people that are a part of it. To all of you, thanks.

Okay. I'm done. You can go throw up now. :-)