Remember that great post a month or so ago about timing and life experiences? Yeah, I've been thinking about that again.
This weekend was the tri-ward camp out in New Hampshire. (For those who may read and do not know, when I go to church I meet in what is called a ward, which is the name for the congregation, divided up based on location, much like school zones. For a better explanation, go here.) As I returned this afternoon quite exhausted I should be asleep, but this has been percolating for more than 24 hours and I need to let it out.
I like my life. I think school is fascinating and I enjoy the work (thus far). I love exploring Boston, and although it is not my favorite city in the world it might make the top five, and I've only been here three weeks. I get along well with my roommates, I'm getting to know the girls upstairs, and this weekend I became much more comfortable with other people my age (ish) who I will interact with frequently for the next two years. I have a lot of things going for me, and I'm happy. This is a good place for me right now.
But my reactions on this camp out really bothered me. I met a lot of awesome people and I look forward to learning more about them; that part was great. But every time I met a boy, or when I distanced myself from the group, or when I zoned out during dinner, my thoughts would go something like this:
Oh that boy is attractive, and he's smart . . . he's in the Charles River Ward, so he's at least 30 . . . Uncle Ryan's only 12 years older than me, what if he's around 34 then he'd be the same age as Ryan, that would be really bizarre, they have completely different lives . . . my life is completely different than Jamie's, she has a baby and she's my age . . . I like my life . . . but I'm in a single's ward, and I'm not at BYU . . . what if I don't get married, none of these boys would be interested in me . . . I don't want people to feel sorry for me because I'm so old and never got married . . . I could be like Wendy Baker, I love her, and she is so great and she wasn't married . . . I want to be married . . . what? no, I like my life . . . why do I feel slightly ashamed that I left Provo without a husband? stupid Mormon culture . . . he's only 26 . . . but they all think I'm so young . . . . I am so young, no one will want to date me . . . I'll never get married . . . I want to be married . . . what?? . . . where did that come from?
What happened to the confidence I had at 18 when I thought it would be great to go off on my own for a few years after BYU to do exactly what I wanted instead of getting married right away? I think it disappeared with some of my world illusions (don't worry, I still have plenty of those). I hate these thoughts. I am not a failure for graduating single (though some would disagree). But occasionally I feel like I am. This weekend was one of those times. And right after that great reminder on Tuesday. plplpl.
I think I need a strong dose of Emerson and the Apostle Paul, with a little Maxwell thrown in the mix. And some sleep.