Plenty of ugly losers are dating—or married to—hot, bad bitches, so I guess there’s no reason for me to worry. I should have a chance, too.

Some Women are from Mars

If our president were a mother, would we still send our sons to war?

Can a father know the same kind of loss—

having never carried a child inside his body,

never birthed another human into being?

Then again, I may be naïve.

A woman who has borne a child is as likely to be bought as a man who has not.

Perhaps she is even more susceptible—

compelled to prove she is harder than a man,

that she has earned this seat.

Amazing how reality can slip from the grip in one winter night.

OMG

My 74-year-old husband said

OMG—

out loud. Not “oh my God,”

but “OMG,”

phonetically:

oh em gee.

Out loud.

How we cannot be in proximity

without touching each other.

That is my thumbprint

on his heart—

It sounds like OMG.

There are more ways to live than sin—just none as fun.

Attestation.

When we first got together,
I needed you more
than you needed me.

But what rises
always falls.

Years in,
you reach for me more
than I reach for you.

Because tides turn,
and need has seasons.

My feet
in your brown leather shoes—
I remember that earlier fear
shedding its hard chrysalis:
Will we stay this close?
Will we stay gentle, stay kind?

And all the once
cringey promises—
the fate-thread, soul-mate lines
I used to roll my eyes at—
suddenly feel true:
it's us till the end;
we will find each other
in every lifetime; and
no one knows me like you.

For all the things I could say,
all the things I’ll still miss,
nothing rises like this—
this quiet miracle
of being chosen back.

I choose you, again and again,
morning after morning,
night after night.
I know that fear—
I’ve stood where you stand—
and I will give you now
the love you once gave me.

It was never about
who needed whom more,
but that we both
turn toward each other,
wanting to need—
again, again, again.

Gratitude List #3

"Fret not your mind with puzzles that you cannot solve. The solutions may never be shown to you until you have left this life. The loss of dear ones, the inequality of life, the deformed and the maimed, and many other puzzling things may not be known to you until you reach the life beyond."

In 2002, I was fourteen and in an inpatient treatment program at a downtown hospital. To be honest, I’m not exactly sure how long I was there. It could have been two weeks or two months—time didn’t really exist then. I only know that I disappeared toward the end of eighth grade and returned entirely different. The angry, dark girl who left came back finishing out the school year in cardigans and calling herself Christian, and no one really knew why. During that time, I had only my schoolwork, a wall “radio” that played a single classical station, and a Bible—the same kind they keep in hotel drawers.

I remember a girl about my age who always dumped a packet of Equal into her half-pint of milk, and a boy who was the most depressed person I had ever met. I didn’t understand why. On family therapy day, his mom and dad seemed nice. They were together, organized, prepared—they'd done all the therapy assignments and never complained about him. It was a stark contrast to my own situation. I understood why I was there. I understood the girl with the milk. But this boy? What was wrong? Didn’t he have it all?

It was jarringly bold when milk girl flat-out asked him, “What the fuck you so sad about?” He tried to explain, almost breathless, about the news: starving kids in Africa, bombings overseas, oceans dying, forests burning. He listed everything as though the U.N. held him personally responsible for the state of the world.

And then she said, “Yeah, but none of that shit is happening to you. How are you so sad about nothing that concerns you? You won’t even meet one of those starving kids. If you cared, you’d help them instead of just be sad.” And I guess it cured him, because not long after, he was discharged. That night, lying in bed listening to my one radio station, I kept thinking about how he was just a kid himself. There were adults—powerful adults with real resources—who should be tackling world hunger. Not some kid with scuffed sneakers and a nice mom.

A lot happened during that stint in the hospital. I read the Bible because there was nothing else to read. Milk girl and I begged the staff to let us do the Darrin’s Dance Grooves VHS tape, and they actually agreed. But what stayed with me most was the idea of wasting a perfectly happy, healthy home and family in order to stew over starving kids in Africa. I suppose I could sit and simmer in international starvation and burning forests now. But I don’t.

As an adult, I understand more about that boy’s sorrow—how overwhelming the world feels once you realize suffering is infinite and you are finite. I see how easily people get lost in unsolvable puzzles: inequities, tragedies, mysteries that belong to a life beyond understanding. So I try not to do the same. I donate to a women’s shelter and an animal rescue. Not because I’m fixing anything, but because my days are limited. I’m almost middle-aged. My strength is limited. My time is limited. And I’m not going to waste a perfectly happy, healthy home and family on things outside my control. I’d rather give what I can and be grateful for what I have, without setting myself on fire trying to solve the unanswerable.

Anyway, here is a gratitude list. I bask in the wealth of my life, and I’m unashamed of that. Yes, there are many who have less, and many who have more. But this is mine. All mine. And I’m not going to feel guilty for anything that belongs to someone else.

• Glitter polish and stickers.

• Friends being in happy, loving relationships.

• Taco Bell.

• Texting with past co-workers.

• Friends who reach out to me for comfort and support.

• A new season of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

• Fresh-ground coffee.

• Avocado toast with a little bit of everything seasoning.

• Maxing out my 401K contributions this year.

• Getting more tasks at work.

• Sending and receiving Christmas cards.

• Perfume.

• Wrapping presents.

• Decorating the tree.

• Realizing how many of my year’s goals I accomplished, and planning for next year.

• How this blog has evolved with me over the years.

• How fortunate I am to grow and evolve in profound, beautiful ways. I am not the same today as I was even a year ago.

• My husband cooking.

• Costco.

• Making “Super” Peanut Butter Cookies (peanut butter dough with ground peanuts and peanut butter chips).

• My menses is consistent and healthy.

• Grapefruit.

• New ChapSticks.

• A text message from a friend I haven’t heard from in a while.

• Progresso soup.

• Music.