I’ve been trying to feel sorry for myself since returning from Colorado. The reason is obvious. I went to the Rockies in search of true love, but I did not find a willing partner. As the days go by without a word from him, I’m flooded with the noisy chatter that usually follows my romantic mishaps. If only I were…. (feel free to fill in the blank here, e.g. prettier, sexier, taller, meaner.) In any case, I’m disappointed AGAIN. Could there be a better reason to sulk in the corner?
Actually, yes.
The truth is, I’m sturdy. Resilience runs in my family. (Like our desire for carbs.) I take a risk, I get hurt, I bounce back. I’ve done it a million times, or at least twenty. And now that I’m older, there’s another layer that stops my whining in its tracks. Gratitude.
Let me start with health. One friend just got out of the hospital, another is really sick. Me? I’m in great shape. I live in a spacious house in a dynamic city, with eternal summer. My dearest girlfriend, who is like a sister, is an esteemed clothing designer [1] and every season she ships me a box of beautiful clothes from her collection, sometimes accompanied by high-end shoes and jewelry, at a family discount. (You should see my new black clutch.) Rose, who doesn’t shed and Lily, who does, follow me around. Need I go on?
In an odd way, the gratitude thing is annoying. I’d like to wallow in a little more “why me.” I want my beloved circle of friends to offer support. But before I’m able to build up any head of steam, I remember what a good time I’ve having. Why is life so unfair?