Going to my happy place

Shockingly—and I know, really, this is shocking—I am becoming satisfied with my lot in life.

1: OK, my house is kinda crappy, but it’s not a slum, the house is pretty big, and we live in a great neighborhood. And I’m getting used to the roaches, even if I’m not better at killing them. I have learned that hot water stuns them. That’s my Martha Stewart tip Christine Wy style.

2: OK, I’m not doing exactly what I want for work, but job pressure is like non-existent for me.

3: And, OK, I’m not getting paid nearly the compensation the national average suggests (not even on the low end), and yeah, I get paid like an assistant instead of a supervisor, but I’m able to pay my bills. There’s nothing left over for real fun, but I’m squeaking by.

So, all-in-all, maybe I actually am in the place I need to be at the moment. Sure there are lots of things that would be more perfect, but maybe this ain’t so bad as I’ve been making it out to be.

I attribute my new found acceptance to a lot of therapy formally with my psychologist, and a lot of informal conversation with my best friend, Monya. We’ve been discussing what sucks and what doesn’t suck, and trying to reframe the “suck” category to see what’s hiding in there of value.

The moral of my story is that virtue is everywhere, if you know to look for it.