My cup runneth over.

I’ve had a lot of conversations over the years about how we respond to our negative (and positive) experiences through a lens of relativity. How the intensity of our problems and our capacity to feel gratitude are affected by what we know, not necessarily what we know is out there. 

There are times to strive for self-actualization (i.e. it could be better), and times to take a big ol’ reality check and realize it could be worse. I’ve thought about this personally and, truly, there is a different mindset in recognizing that I live a remarkably privileged life and then actually understanding how to process that rationally in my day-to-day happenings. 

Like this crazy rash I’ve had for more than a month now. (I know it seems a bit indiscreet to talk about rashes so openly, but it’s not like I contracted it through some kind of scandalous behavior. And it’s not like anyone who has seen me in the last few weeks hasn’t already gotten an eyeful of it—not to mention an earful about it. Sorry friends!)

It is pervasive (well, practically, thank goodness). And it itches like—pardon my French—une sale putain. If I could bottle how it feels when I scratch it, I could compete with Viagra. 

In my tiny bubble of bliss, this is a massive problem. The fact that no medical professional has yet determined what it is, or been able to adequately treat it, is slowly driving me mad. And did I mention it itches?

It’s frustrating and uncomfortable, yes. But you know what? I’ve been able to visit a doctor’s office five times in the past four weeks. I’ve had access to a prescription within an hour of diagnosis every time. I can afford to pay for all of this. I have a job to go back to after my appointments, and the sanctuary of my air-conditioned home where I can lie on an ice-pack until it melts. And then go to the freezer and grab another. 

In short, I have no problems. Only blessings that are trying to make sure I’m paying attention, I think.

 

Too many to count...