How David Sedaris saved my live...

I purchased the book at the airport, having finished the novel I had incorrectly assumed would last for the whole trip. Being of a cheap sort, I hesitated to shell out the $14.95 suggested retail value—although I was sure it would be worth it—because I knew that if I waited long enough, one friend or another would offer to let me borrow their copy. However, the thought of facing a two and a half hour flight (and the inevitable wait for my ride at the terminal after my arrival) without some sort of reading material was enough to push me over the edge and whip out my credit card. Hopefully, Mr. Sedaris would appreciate my generosity. Perhaps he would donate $15 to a nice charity.

I began the book before I ever stepped on the plane and quickly found myself stifling my chuckles. Had I been alone, I would have laughed out loud, but I was unsure if my fellow travelers might find my behavior disconcerting before boarding a plane with me. Air travel is so strained now. If I had been with my husband Robbie, I would have been reading salient portions aloud, which takes me three times as long to read a passage because I can’t contain my own laughter when I hear his words out loud.

Somewhere over Kansas, I realized that I was going to finish the book before we touched down in Cincinnati. I debated: should I try to read slower? Should I take a break? I glanced at the gentleman sitting (mercifully) two seats away from me; he was reading one magazine after another—the variety that I couldn’t help but look at on the newsstand but frowned upon others for actually purchasing. And not because I’m cheap. Just because they seem to be so tasteless. Why do we want to know the popular young starlet has lost too much body mass, now weighing in at just slightly above the average house dog? Why do we want to read others’ speculation about the reasons for the break-up of that famous couple’s two year marriage—two years, we thought for sure they’d make it!—and grieve with the ex-wife, looking miserable in her unfortunate photo, caught on the way to the 7-11 without make-up, as her happy ex-hubby is shown cavorting with his latest film co-star? Nope, I’d rather continue reading at my regular pace than continue pondering why this beefy guy reads girly gossip mags.

As I closed the book (should I start over?), I stared out the window and wondered why I enjoyed Mr. Sedaris’ work so much. The answer was more than just “it’s funny stuff.” It seemed to touch a deeper place in me, especially at this time when next to nothing seemed funny. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever been more miserable. It’s nothing of a personal nature—my marriage, family and friend situations were all fine—but something about my job has worn a piece of my heart and soul so thin that I seem to be in constant pain. Pain so real and so close to the surface that I cry at the drop of a hat. And as a self-proclaimed macho-girl, I don’t like to cry, so this emotional crap was really taking a toll on me.

And then I began to think that perhaps it was the way that he looked at his life. Mr. Sedaris seems to write about real life situations with his family and his partner—situations that probably are very much not funny at the time, at least to those around him. But something about the filter on his brain, his outlook on life, gives some sort of hope to life rather than making me cry.

Despite my near-depression state and my personal holy war with God (something that has probably not shown up on the radar yet for my church family, but those who are very close to me have glimpsed), I still take the time to read my One-Year Bible every morning and write down verses in my journal that catch my attention. At the present, the plural “verses” often can only be used when one combines my writings over days. But I’m still whacking away at it, for some reason I can’t seem to identify. I rarely look back at what I have written, since most of it seems so far from relevant that my tea leaves speak louder, but something in me suddenly remembers what I might have jotted down today. I have to pull it from my knapsack to verify, but there it is written in my own hand: “A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.” This morning my only reflections on this proverb were “Wow, crushed spirit really resonates with me right now” and “why is the writer so bent on being negative—can’t he end on an up note?” Now however, the idea of a cheerful heart stands out to me. Whether Mr. Sedaris or his family would identify his own heart as a cheerful one is a quandary to me, but I know that his words, if only for a few moments, lift me out of my own unhappiness (an unusual departure from life as of late).