Lately I've seen some pretty crappy news reports about crappy people doing crappy things in the world. Did you hear about the poor turtle that was duct taped to a bunch of helium balloons and sent flying over Oceanside, CA? What about the charming folks that work at the daycare in Dover, DE who encouraged their 3 year old charges into punching each other, in a weird sort of baby fight club? Cell phone video shows an employee telling the kids, "No pinching, only punching!" What about the drunk guy that stumbled into a poultry farm in Maryland and turned off the light switch to three chicken houses, consequently killing 70,000 chickens who died from heat exhaustion?
I've seen these negative news stories over the last few weeks, and I intended on doing a piece about overcoming the negativity out there in the world by seeking positivity. I had written a great paragraph about my daily commute on the Metro train that I share with the depressed, impatient, and often hostile workforce of Washington, DC.
That might have to wait another week or so. Somehow, after the day I had today, my Metro ride and the kidnapped turtle and baby fight club all seem so trivial. Not because they're not important. Not because the crappy people won't get their comeuppance eventually. But because today the news I heard had nothing to do with crappy side of man or woman-kind. It had to do with the cold, harsh reality of life. And death.
I heard today that a friend of mine, a former co-worker, lost her battle with cancer. She was in her early 40s; close to my age. She was married to another friend of mine, another former co-worker, and they were totally and completely in love. He watched her suffer through, get treatment for, and beat breast cancer a few years ago. Not long after they set off to fulfill their bucket list of adventures; Flamenco dancing in Spain; kissing the Blarney Stone in Ireland. They saw U2 (his favorite band) play live in Dublin.
Last night my friend watched my other friend die. His beautiful wife, his poetry muse, his flamenco partner . . . is gone. He is now a 42 year old widower. Pardon my French, but that fucking sucks.
So, I won't regale you with stories about my Metro rides or the sad-sational news story of the week. I am going to take this opportunity to document the things I am truly grateful for. Because, as we all keep saying, year after year, death after death . . . life is short. Be grateful for what you have and seize the bloody day. My list of Gratitude is as follows:
· A job that affords me the luxury of a simple vacation a few times a year, repairs on my old Jeep when necessary, cat food, a Starbucks Chai Latte twice a week, a trip to the record exchange whenever another Sugarhill Gang or Ella Fitzgerald vinyl comes in, and our house in the 'burbs that is way too extravagant but is utterly charming and delightful. Christ on a bike. I sound shallow. Read on.
· A relationship with a mature, funny, intelligent, well-rounded, silly, nerdy, fiscally responsible, agreeable, mellow, tolerant, patient, ethical and drug-free man. Ladies . . . as I've said before. Step aside - he's mine. He's actually making dinner right now as I write my blog. I don't ask WHY I'm so lucky. I just thank Goddess I am.
· My health. Despite my frequent headaches, stomach aches, shoulder surgery, mole removals, root canal, new eye glasses prescription, weird cramped toe-thing, moody depressed days occasionally and a lot of bloating . . . I'm actually in pretty good shape. I am trying every day to love my ever-changing body just the way it is. Lumps and moles and burps and all. And I'm grateful that my ever-growing ass can still booty-pop next to the twenty-something, lithe young women with long hair and perfect skin that dominate my hip hop classes.
· My parents. What amazing patience those two have. As an only child, I was the center of attention, drama, disaster, financial strain, drama, etc. I required braces and ballet camp and Girl Scouts, and learned to shoot a gun, knit, appreciate Broadway musicals, got good grades, planted gardens, took the city bus alone to ballet class, raised rescued pets, recycled, country-western danced, played with frogs and snakes and lizards, wore cowboy boots, was an English major despite my father's pleas, had college paid for, drove a 1964 Ford Falcon in high school and a cherry -red Toyota Tercel in college, stood up to bullies, defended my friends, ate rattlesnake over a camp fire . . . need I go on?
I am grateful for so much more, but this is only a blog - not the sequel to "Little Women" or a cabin-dweller's manifesto. But please indulge me with one last thought . . . Last weekend Frank and I had a dinner party for 13 of our friends. It was lovely. Even though I was exhausted from cooking and cleaning for two days, I hope my guests know how much their presence meant to me. To us. I had never cooked a sit-down meal for that many people before. But it was smooth sailing. Martha Stewart would be jealous. I had also organized a "detective game" and our guests were there to help us solve a mystery and find a hidden treasure. I was surprised at the enthusiasm of these "adults" - as they tiptoed through our woods with flashlights, whispered in corners while huddled over clues, and cheered each other on after each new discovery. Our home was literally glowing with giddiness and chatter and new friendships and . . . gratitude.
My heart beats a little faster when I think back over last Saturday night's events. It all seemed to go by so fast. And just now, when I scrolled to the top of this page to proofread, the reality of today kicks me in the gut again. A friend is gone. Another is hurting so deeply that I can't even imagine his pain. Am I being disrespectful for gloating over my seemingly idyllic life? What do they have to be grateful for?
The Blarney Stone. Dancing in the moonlight. Each other.
Until next time, with peace and an abundance of gratitude.
