Sometimes I forget to be grateful. Okay, most of the time I forget to be grateful.
I have everything that matters—more than I ever dreamed of, actually. But so often I focus on what I don’t have. Maybe that’s human nature. Or maybe that’s just me, spoiled and seldom satisfied. (Insert swift kick to rear here.)
George Clooney will never call, but I’m grateful for the husband who reaches over to hold my hand at 3 a.m.
I don’t have a passport stamped with exotic destinations, but I’m grateful for the hospitality of friends.
I don’t have children, but I do have 1,019 books. And a really cute dog.
I don’t have a showplace home in which visitors wander around slack-jawed. But I’m grateful for the worn linoleum in my kitchen, because it’s an extra layer between me and the fire ants under the house.
I don’t have a big TV, but I’m glad I’d rather read anyway.
I don’t have and will never have Yard of the Month, unless Astroturf is considered a perennial. But I’m grateful for the man Widdle pays to mow our lawn--he runs a mean weedeater.
I’ll never win a beauty pageant, but I’m grateful for the beautician who beats my hair into submission.
I don’t have a lot of money, but I’m grateful that our income exceeds our expenses.
I don’t have a sports car or a maid. But I love my battered Ford Explorer, whose worn leather seat molds perfectly to my posterior. And I’m grateful for a husband who vacuums the whole house—without being asked--after he’s worked a 12-hour day.
I miss my father, but I’m grateful that he taught me how to be kind.
I’ll never be 5 feet 8 with legs up to my chin, but I’m grateful for my flawed body because A) my husband likes it and B) much like my Explorer, it still gets me where I want to go.
I don’t have a Pulitzer Prize, but I’ve had a long, wonderful run in the newspaper business. It’s the greatest show on earth.
I’m not a great Christian—I hope no one ever follows my example--but I’m forgiven.
I don’t have an ideal relationship with my mother, but I’m grateful that she pushed me to be independent.
I don’t have perfect vision, but I’m grateful for bifocal contacts. (Even if they do make me feel drunk at 8 a.m.)
I don’t have patience, but I’m grateful for a good sense of humor.
I don’t have smooth social skills, but I’m grateful for tolerant friends who say, “You can’t take her anywhere, but she means well.”
I’m not famous, but I’m grateful I’m not Sarah Palin. Or Levi Johnston.
I don’t have 300-thread-count sheets, but I’m grateful for my soft feather bed.
I don’t live in a fancy resort area, but I’m grateful for no drive-by shootings.
I can’t paint, sew, cook, draw or knit, but I’m grateful for the creativity of those who can.
I don’t speak a second language, but I’m grateful for subtitles.
I don’t have an exciting rock-star lifestyle, but at least I’m not in rehab.
Julie R. Smith, who appreciates her entire life, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.