A friend asked me to be the guest speaker for a meeting, with the topic being letting go of your character defects. This stymied me because (a) I clearly have no character defects (b) I hold on to those nonexistent character defects with all my strength and consider them simply assets for which people refuse to make allowances.

It occurred to me that I could talk about self-pity, because it does recur in my life, and because I find it deeply annoying, though I generally remember not to indulge it when it has gone on too long and I’m no longer extracting much satisfaction from letting it run all over me with its muddy cleats.

I reflect that I have often had occasion to feel sorry for myself, for excellent reasons, of course.

I was sorry for myself in my early twenties because I was sick, lonely, incompetent, and increasingly confused. Then I pitied myself for being unmarried, not knowing how to work for a living, and being overweight. In my late twenties, I was desolate because I was married, but didn’t have a child, and because I lived far from my friends and family and was a failure as an artist. The early thirties were dedicated to feeling despondent because I did have a child, because I lived near friends and family but was married to someone who kept quitting his job, because my mother was getting ill, and because I was good at a job that people didn’t consider worthy. Then I despaired because I was taking care of my mother, living away from my friends and family, and in graduate school. In my forties, I was extra specially upset because I failed spectacularly at my dream job in my new profession, and then because I was overworked and underpaid in the excellent job I immediately got after that. You get the picture.

Sometimes I had good reasons to be sorry for myself, I suppose. I was sad because my mother was dying, then because she died, and then because my husband fell ill. I worried because my grandson was born five weeks early, and because I had retired and then started a new job entirely out of my area of expertise, while COVID was isolating everyone from everyone. My husband died, and I was extra special self-pitying about that, even though while he was alive I felt sorry for myself because I had to accommodate another human being in my life all the time.

Over and over, repeatedly, in all these situations, I notice that I have been sorry for myself in situations that are diametrically opposed to one another. This, of course, comes as a complete surprise.

I suppose I could talk briefly about letting go of self-pity, because I have had to do it so frequently, and because it reappears in my life knocking on my front door wearing a different feathered mask, inflatable dinosaur suit, Mormon missionary outfit, or muddy cleats. Persistent little bastard, self-pity.

Right now, I would like to state for the record that I am deeply sorry for myself because of the nerve pain in my right leg and the arthritic right shoulder, except that I notice I woke up this morning with no pain, probably because of barometric pressure. This seems unfair.

However, I am also sorry that this morning I have to attend a funeral for someone I don’t know well, which meant I had to buy clothing. I will happily let go of that sorrow, because it is very pretty out and because I bought a cute long skirt that is probably unsuitable but which I can keep in my closet for other such situations. Also, the funeral will be over soon.

Now I feel very pleased that I have managed to summon up a character defect, so that people will listen to me and be impressed by how self-aware I am, because everything else about me is entirely reasonable and wise.