October 8: Pity Me, Feeling Sorry for Yourself, Bag Full of Gold

These were tempestuous times at the new magazine [The New Yorker].  By the time Andy arrived, Harold Ross had weathered a first year of low advertising revenues, low circulation, and low morale.  Now he was cautiously thinking that the magazine might become a success, even if it wasn't yet a moneymaker.  But there were still days when Ross seemed on the edge of desperation.  "God, how I pity me!" he would moan in his theatrical way...

Yes, I understand Harold Ross's state of mind in this paragraph.  Always on the verge of failure.  Staying one step ahead of collapse.  Success just out of reach.  Of course, for Ross, the story ends with a happily ever after.  The New Yorker becomes one of the most successful and influential magazines of its time.  And E. B. White's time.  And our time.

I have been going through a period of feeling sorry for myself.  Same old story.  Money problems.  Work problems.  Doubts.  Worries.  If I could get away with it, I'd probably moan "God, how I pity me!" too.  But I can't get away with it because it sounds a little self-important.  Plus, feeling sorry for yourself isn't very attractive.

Usually, I try not to take myself too seriously.  Worry is for people without any kind of faith.  Since I profess to be a Christian, I am supposed to have faith that God will take care of me, in good times and bad.  Worry should not even be part of my emotional vocabulary. 

Yet, I find it difficult to look at a pile of bills and shut-off notices and think, "God will provide."  That seems like the equivalent of buying a lottery ticket in order to make a house payment.  It ain't gonna happen.  That may sound sacrilegious, but it's the way my mind works.  God isn't going to cut me a check to put gas in my car.  And He isn't going to send a guardian angel to my front door with a bag full of gold so that my daughter can get her braces.

This weekend, we're taking my daughter to the Wisconsin Dells for a dance convention.  The only reason we can afford to go is because of the generosity of my sister.  We're taking her car.  She's paying for the hotel room.  And most of the food.

I'm a little tired of this paycheck-to-paycheck existence.  Every morning, I pray that I make it through the day without any surprises.  Last night, on the way home from work, the brake light came on in my car.  This morning, when I started my car, the brake light remained off.  Crisis averted.  For now.

Sometimes, I feel like I've made wrong choices in my life.  If I had stuck with computers, I would probably be a much wealthier person.  If I had finished my PhD, I would probably have a tenured position at a university.  If I had become a plumber like my father and brothers, I would probably be making forty or fifty dollars an hour.

I am being a little bit of a fatalist.  Can't get around it.  I'll allow myself a Harold Ross night.  Tomorrow, I'll be back on the God wagon.

Tonight, however, Saint Marty has one thing to say:  "God, how I pity me!"

Patron saint of worry