I was over at my parents' house last weekend, complaining about hospital bills and car repair bills and tax bills (suck it, government) and how I was worried about my future fertility and my dad interrupted me to say, "Well at least you're ALIVE."
And, hey, thanks, Dad, way to ruin my pity party. I might point out that I get my bitching ability FROM HIM. Anyway, he's right, of course, and I know that I/we am/are lucky and blessed and we have Patrick and our health (er, mostly) and a roof over our heads, etc., etc. But complaining is more fun than talking about everything that's going well. It's why power couples don't last on soap operas. (Not that I, you know, watch those.) Talking about all the great things in your life is just not that compelling.
However, I will bore you with my tales of Ireland in the interest of keeping it happy (and, um, remembering my trip for posterity). You can blame my dad. That will start with the next entry.
Until then, I just want to say that there are two reasons I keep complaining:
1. I'm sad.
2. I'm scared.
This is not abnormal, or uncommon, I don't think. Many people go through many things worse than this, and many of them probably handle it better but oh well. I'm sad and I'm scared.
