There are some legendary streaks of futility in our history.
The Chicago Cubs not winning a World Series since 1908. 'The 40-year-old Virgin'. The Northwestern football team losing 34 straight games in the early 80s. Consecutive days my brother showed up to work with a 5 o'clock shadow. The five years it took to catch check-forger and flight-deadheader Frank Abagnale, or the nearly 10 years it took to finally hunt down Bin Laden.
While my recently-halted predicament doesn't quite compare to those examples, it sure had me wondering - much, perhaps, like my brother's boss - if this streak might ever end. Every day, I opened my fridge and saw that jar of strawberry jam quietly sitting there, waiting for its amorous partner in culinary bliss to come home.
On Tuesday this week, it finally arrived.
Using a tip by an American father who coaches with the local Budapest baseball club, I found my way to the baking section at Tesco, which is much like the Hungarian version of Wal-Mart or Target. There, after nearly three long months of searching, was a glorious jar of peanut butter.
My eye's lit up much like that member of Seal Team Six's must have when he spotted Bin Laden through his scope. My move across the pond was now complete. I would once again be able to sit down and enjoy one of life's great pleasures, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
In the three days that followed, I ate 10. A kid in a candy shop, the first person in the ballpark on Opening Day, the teenage girl when a new Lady Gaga song is released. I was all three wrapped in one.
Let the good times roll folks, and this guy's got a little more pep to his step this week.