I’m changing my idea of a charmed life.

I knew a whole mess of girls in high school (a hundred years ago) of whom I would have said their lives had been easy.  Pretty, smart, two-parent households, seeming grace on the playing field, good grades — and likable.  They possessed that air of entitlement that I lacked and could never have acquired.

For decades, I resented folks with perfect teeth, straight limbs, investment savvy, and rhythm.

But I’m changing my view of the parameters of a charmed life.  I don’t have cancer — check.  I can manage to pay my bills on time every month (more or less) — check.  My car starts in the morning, I make it out of the driveway, I don’t burn myself when I brew coffee.  Check, check, triple check.

Sandy Thomas Dixon and her husband Chuck read my blog every day — check check.  Same for Andrea Sununu, Pat Reynolds, Brenda Dingley, Phil Carrott, and Joyce Kramer.  Smiles abound.

The light switch works; the dryer starts; the dog’s seizures seem to be under control.  Groovy.

My kid calls me every couple of days and seems to be thriving. Ditto my shared children. Marvelous.

Twice a year, with a little finagling, I get to sit in an old deck chair on a sidewalk above the ocean and watch its waves crash against the rocks.  No matter that I’m within hailing distance of the medical facility that regularly tests me for a growing number of barely contained viruses.  I can come and look at the sea, thanks to the help of a few nameless ones and that eight-hundred dollar bill which I plunk down each month for kick-ass medical insurance that makes those Stanford gurus in-network.

it’s all good.  Life continues.