Pity Parties.

I am thankful for “pity parties.”

Of all the potential best friends in the world, my JB ranks in the 99.9^th percentile. She is a genius. She is hysterically funny. She is supportive and dependable and sarcastic and a terrific wife and mother. She’s one of the best gifts God has sent me to date, and I will lose my mind if she ever has to live far away from me. Although, after 12 years of friendship, we have dozens of memories and traditions, one of our enduring favorites is the “pity party.” We established said parties during our senior year of high school and have indulged in them infrequently but when necessary ever since. They’re based on two fundamental beliefs: 1) Sometimes you just want someone to listen to you complain, and 2) Chocolate is delicious.

If I describe the glory of pity parties, I realize I’m running the risk of everyone—or at least all the like-minded women—wanting to attend. But I’m going to do it anyway because they are wonderfully therapeutic. It goes like this: a 2-liter of soda + Swiss Rolls + moaning and complaining until you feel better + someone listening sympathetically as long as it takes + Bridget Jones’s Diary (optional humor booster) = pity party. I assure you, it cures all evils. JB and I have had pity parties to get through breakups, family/work stress, procrastination, and general disappointment. We even had a pity party over the phone while I was in graduate school. Lost your job? You need a pity party. Your boyfriend cheated? You need a pity party. Your car was stolen? You need a pity party.

While I realize it’s not the healthiest idea to wallow in despair and gorge yourself on Little Debbies, I assure you both are side notes in a much lovelier story. What makes the pity party work is the loving support of a friend who cares deeply about your hurt or frustration or confusion. Pity parties are about reminding yourself that you’re not wandering in the dark. You’re connected, loved, and integral to someone else. That’s what JB tells me all the time, directly and indirectly, whether we call an official pity party or not. And that’s one of the 3,000 reasons I love her. So here’s to pity parties! Which translates, of course, to, “Thank God for friendship.” And chocolate. And most importantly, in my case, for JB.