Like seriously, I assure you I’m already implementing this directive. On steroids.
I’ve read all the articles and the studies and I get it: mindfulness is good, gratitude is better, and mindful gratitude is an elusive nirvana where you’re permanently stoned on your own sticky dank nugs of inner peace. It’s high concept, and I have to get there.
For now though, I’m here, and here is light years away from there. Where’s here? I’m glad you asked!
Here is where I watch my kid turn on the faucet and actively think to myself, wow, I can’t believe he can just drink clean water right out of a tap instead of having to walk barefoot three miles one way to a well full of fecal coliform bacteria!
Here is where I appraise every car, gun, turbulent plane ride, and weird skin mole as a future harbinger of death to me or someone I love, and feel relief when the sun sets each night and the Grim Reaper is miraculously held at bay for just one more day.
Here is where I put watermelon rinds into the compost, turn up the thermostat to 73, and thumb through the American Girl Doll catalogue while marveling that a plastic doll named Kelsey has her own snowboard—a piece of expensive althletic equipment that most human girls on earth don’t even know exists, much less use, much less have a DOLL who uses it.
So believe me when I tell you that I’m grateful. I PROMISE. I don’t need a special day where I’m forced to announce all of my gratitude out loud lest the aggressive Industrial Gratitude-Shaming Complex accuse me of being a self-absorbed ingrate.
I’m already grateful. Maybe a little too grateful, even. Can’t I just be crazy 364 days a year and take the 365th off? Is that too much to ask?