(Sorry, Lisa, no sarcasm today.)
I am always aware of how blessed I am, and how I have no rights really to complain about anything. Being of reasonable good health, in a lovely home with the most remarkably patient and loving husband, and mother of two daughters who continue to delight me with their ways of living life, I truly have it all.
Perhaps I don’t have it all by other folks’ definitions because I don’t own designer duds, I don’t go for regular mani-pedis, I don’t own a vacation home or a time-share in Vegas (is that even a thing?). I don’t have food shipped to me in a cute box, I don’t belong to a gym, and my car is ten years old.
But I do have it all by the standards of folk who are afraid to walk down the street in the daytime; who don’t have constant access to clean water and a billionty supermarkets; who live with laws allowing them to be executed if they learn to read or drive; who are greeted with suspicion every where they go based on something they have no control over; and who cannot find their own voice and have nobody to speak for them.
The only thing I wish for? To never forget just how lucky I am.