At 12:55 p.m., I stood with about thirty other folks in the chilly air outside of the Public Library. I turned to a young man hovering near the door and said, “This alone should tell them that 1:00 p.m. is too late to open!” He laughed. “And on Sunday, too!” I nodded. Yes, Sunday.
And then I gazed across the parking lot and thought, “Okay, Corinne. Instead of snarking about the fact that the library doesn’t open until 1, perhaps you should be grateful that it isn’t closed on Sundays!”
I realize no one felt any pain from my little jab. Perhaps it is insignificant. But I voiced that tiny but inescapably negative statement outloud almost without thought. It seems the complaining habit became so much second-nature to me, that it is my voice of first resort.
Nothing earth-shattering to report today. I’m just ruminating on how warped the fiber of my being must have become, that I think first of the worst, or the bad, or the lamentable; and only afterwards, of the good and that for which I should be thankful.
By the end of the year, I hope that it is the positive which I express almost without thought; and the negative which someone else has to call to my attention, giving me the chance to invite them into my sphere of gratitude.
Do I sound like Pollyanna? I’ll plead guilty to being a Pollyanna wannabee, if that’s the charge.
I want to be the woman who smiles at everyone, figuring that life is a birthday party, and she’s the guest of honor. Delusional? Perhaps. But being considered the lady who warbles on about the joys of life strikes me as so much more inviting than being considered the sourpuss whom no one wants to visit because all she does is moan and groan.