This Is My Chin. You'll Note That It Is Up.

There comes a point in life when you’ve been unemployed for two months in a failing economy, had your resume rejected 30 times, been personally rejected after three interviews, and can’t get a certain temp agency to call you back when you think things look pretty bad. Then your insurance company tries to screw you out of nearly $1000 for a routine test. A test to tell you that you don’t have cancer. The disease that’s affected several of your family members. Including your mother. Who it claimed years ago. When you were nine.

And then you think back to you and your mom’s favorite picture book, Could Be Worse by James Stevenson, about two kids who whine to their grandpa about their trivial problems like splinters and lost kites and always elicit the same eponymous reply until one day he conjures up a long, elaborate story to teach them how much worse things really could be.

Then you think well, hey, things could be worse. So what if I’m unemployed with seemingly few prospects and looming medical bills? I don't have cancer. I have oodles of friends and family who I adore. I have the bestest boyfriend on earth who senses bad moods from miles away and brings home flowers to make me smile. I have a roof over my head and cable TV. I have rum in the liquor cabinet. I have a library card and poop jokes and turkeys-gone-wild in my backyard.

You think all that and then suddenly, things don't look so bad after all.