For the past eight years, I’ve celebrated February 13th. A few of you know why, but basically, it’s the day I quit a lot of bad habits and gained a great friendship. I put more effort into doing something for February 13th every year than I do into celebrating my birthday. And despite the snowstorm, my mom just came by with flowers, hugs, and plans to take me out to dinner tonight. And Sam’s coming in this evening to spend the day tomorrow.
So this morning I flipped back eight years in my diary, looking for a glimpse of who I was then, and stumbled across a list I wrote in great pain of ten things I’d given up hope of ever happening. Most of the things on the list had either happened or ceased to matter in the past eight years, but one item, halfway down the list, caught my heartstrings: “Being happy for a whole day.” With one or two justifible exceptions, I take for granted that any given day is going to be pretty damned good, and it’s hard to think back to a time when that wasn’t so. I think that gulf of understanding is the best gift I can give myself this year.