But, wait, let me back up and come at this like a drill.

If you don’t mind, I’d like to tell you about my weekend. And what I learned.

I have to say, I’m very glad that there are a wealth of good people in the State of Mississippi. It never ceases to amaze me, as long as I’ve lived here, how innately good so many of them are. And get this: I’m talking about the younger generation. Not just my Aunt Zora’s quilting bee.

The human spirit is alive, well, and brilliantly resilient in this state. Key word here: resilient.

That’s important to note because I’m fairly sure I was  the Sword of Damocles from Friday, around 4:16 PM until Sunday evening, just after 8:00, tenderly dangling over old friendships, new ones, and being all around, a constant threat of instability…even if I were the general Funny Man, floating from bar to bar, I taxed a great number of these good people.

But, wait, let me back up and come at this like a drill.

I treated this weekend much like a Jenny Craig reject would a Barnhill’s buffet. I’m not sure when I gave myself permission to become an idiot for the weekend, probably while I was dancing in my office in an attempt to choreograph a number from the musical Godspell - hey, you get through your day, your way, and I’ll get through my day, mine – but the point is, I granted myself permission to treat the “Fri-Sat-Sun” (thank you, Amy Sedaris) as a nubile, 21-year-old.

Young, fresh, and green as a Midori Sour.

I embraced the entire weekend like a support group. “Hi, my name is Kris, and I’d like to sit at your table and talk about everthing that’s ever happened to me.”  I became a Wanderer, a loose-limbed, cocky-grinned, good-looking Wanderer, mind you, but still…a Wanderer.

And I met people.

A lot of people.

I’m also not sure what office I was running for this past weekend, but I guarantee you, I was out to win it. I shook hands, kissed babies, ate communal bread (or whatever that was in the styrofoam), and I smiled. I smiled and flirted and, though I can’t absolutely confirm this, I might well have ruined a friendship, three dates, and what might have been a proposal.

All in all, it was a great weekend…except, well…shocker of shocks, I’m not a 21-year-old.

No, I’m a few months shy of 33.

Ouch, right.

I’d like to say I took full advantage of this past weekend as some sort of rebellion against the mythical, sacred age of 33. Maybe I did, maybe it’s so deeply in my subconscious that it can only be justified by “Yeah, right, sure you did, Kris” criticisms…who knows. But, it certainly rang true on one very conscious level, that cannot be ignored: I don’t entirely want to grow up.

However, rebellion is hardly the way to recapture your Youth.

I was nothing short of a fool, this past weekend. Oh, I didn’t really do anything bad, and I walked home, so no law was broken, but I should be embarrassed by the way I conducted myself, in public, laughter or no, joke or not. No, wait, no, what I should really be upset about is the fact that I felt the need to do this; I convinced myself that this would break the burden of stress I’m under.

Because I must admit: I’m under a lot of stress, as of late.

I wonder if that’s a typically American thing to do, enbracing vices? Think about it. Go on and replace binge drinking with something else.  Let’s see, what are common cyclical vices we turn to, time and again? Certainly, people drink…excessive sleeping, that’d be one, right? Overeating, certainly fits the bill. Not eating is one, I know from personal experience. For some, it’s cleaning. Or exercise (you can’t tell it to look at me, now, but this used to be on my list, too)…actually, the list, itself, mine or yours, is, I’m sure, too long, period.

And who cares what’s on it, really, the fact of the matter is we keep that list, we maintain it…and maybe add to it from time to time, because we need a distraction. We need a break. We need something more tangible than stress management classes. I tried to take one, once, and my god, it nearly gave me a panic attack. The ideas of “list maintenance” and “goal setting” were the very things I was stressed out about.

The point of stress management is lovely and on paper, seems admirable, but it wasn’t for me.

On the other hand, I can’t have another weekend like this past one. I don’t have time to engage in that much damage control.

Plus, fun used to be fun. Back in the day, it didn’t result in a headache and an upset stomach.

I’m soothing my nerves by saying, Hey this is a lesson, Kris, you had to learn it. But, I know that’s not true. I know this lesson, already…heck, my mother wrote the preface to the textbook. My father’s in the acknowledgments – I’d rather not tell you who it’s dedicated to.

And, I don’t want to leave you with the impression that I was some sort of misbehaving irritant all weekend. I did have fun, I just didn’t draw any lines, and that, my friends, is never a good idea.

I’ll tell you, though, honestly speaking, I did walk away with two absolute truths, two Lessons (capital “L”) that I learned:

1) I’m really wrestling with some things, right now. Some confusing, aggravating things, and everything’s wrapped up in them, my sexuality, my identity, my faith, my integrity. Sounds fun, right. And, also, I learned that

2) you have to wrestle with some things.

Not run away from them, not ignore them, not drink until they’re funny, not hide out in the church pew and pray them away, but to gear your “guns” up, face them head-on, and tackle them, put them in a chokehold. I know you’d rather punch them in their faces, but I think that’s not allowed in wrestling, according to the WWE.

You can check out the official rules, yourself, about that.

But, the analogy still works. Just like Jacob and the Angel, the point of wrestling isn’t just to pin your opponent to the mat, and into submission, it’s to physically dominate your opponent, to give them a visual of surrender: what it feels like, and what it looks like. It’s Nature’s Show & Tell, this need.

And it’s primal – we all want to “take the mountain.” Key word this time: take.

A punch won’t do anything but leave a bruise, and cause a momentary bit of humiliation; wrestling, though, entails defeat…and humility.

Of course, so do six martinis…and a glass of Moscato.

But, who’s counting…

Oh, wait…that’s right, I am; starting…Now.

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