This past weekend, somewhere between the house cleaning, the hair-twisting tooth-pulling (i.e., writing), the crawfish, and the general aches and pains, I realized that I love my life.
I mean. I REALLY love my life.
Sure, I could do with a maid that appeared when I snapped my fingers, a bit more financial security, and a bit less 9-5, but I REALLY do love my life.
I don’t know the last time that I felt that. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt that.
It’s a Lloyd Dobler-holding-a-boom-box kind of love, and I serenaded it with family and sunshine and splurging on some really, really good crawfish.
I love it so much that I actually canceled Netflix. It’s probably temporary, and yes, I’ve already seen this season of House of Cards (as evidenced by a higher water bill from all of the showers I had to take to rinse the slime off). It’s not even about the $8 a month, because really, it’s one of the most affordable forms of pre-packaged entertainment available. I am watching my pennies (well, except for crawfish because, well, because crawfish), but that’s not it at all.
Lyrical Fool 