I was talking with Fr. T and pulling a standard maneuver wherein I complain about how well things are going, and try to work out some way that I must be doing something wrong — you know, something I could work on, something to feel guilty about. Fr. T blames this, mostly in jest, on my Jewish heritage: people talk about “Catholic guilt,” but Jews have got Catholics beat in that department. And if you happen to be both…sheesh.
The particular thing that I was trying to interpret in the most guilty light possible was the Kung Fu. There aren’t too many things that I spend more than a few hours a week on: work, eating, sleeping, maybe prayer. Now Kung Fu has made that list, and I’m wondering: how much is too much?
Right now it’s an hour every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday. But then there’s the stretching and practicing at home; plus I just got sparring gear (there’s a session every Saturday); plus I’d love to sign up for the new special-training module (that’s another two hours a week). Shouldn’t I be doing less training and more praying? Couldn’t we chop off an hour or two at the dojo1 and add an hour or two at the soup kitchen?2
Fr. T points out that Kung Fu is, for me, therapy. Okay, it’s a good point, even though I don’t like to think of it that way. But it’s a good point because, as I’ve mentioned before, it seems to have been tailor-made just for me: community, friendship, the chance to be physical, the chance to give and receive affirmation; all of it’s just what I’ve always wanted, and all of it beats sitting in a chair with a box of tissues and kvetching about my parents. Beats it with a large stick.
Eh, I don’t know. I’m not exactly up nights thinking about it or nothin’, I’m just a little wary. This is the kind of problem that any of my married siblings would kill to have. Celibacy has its perks, and one of them is the ability to spend as much time as you like taking care of nobody but yourself.