Actually, quite a lot of things could be worse. My shoulder is injured but it's not a terminal illness. My kids don't like me, but they aren't, either one of them, in prison. I only owe $40,000 on my house, and that's just about what I have left in my life savings.
My son is home for a couple of weeks; we had minimal but pleasant conversation in the car, and he didn't start sniping at me until the third or fourth time I asked him to take a look at the lawnmower. A few minutes ago, my Harvard physics major snarled that he's sorry but he's not a lawnmower expert. And I should stop yelling at him.
But he does want me to tell him what it means that I have car trouble, in re: getting him to the bus station, in the nether parts of the county, so he can visit his friends. Well, son, I am not a car expert, so I'll have to get back to you on that. Meanwhile, let's just leave it that I am responsible for ruining your social life.
My mother wished it on me, you know. When I was a teenager, she said someday I would have kids that treated me the way I was treating her. A wish I would never make towards my own children.
The face wants to smile, so I keep reminding myself of how much worse it could be. But the face won't smile because I can't really convince myself, as things break around me and my savings are gouged monthly, that my life is actually good.
And let me end by apologizing for my misery.
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