Despite my longstanding love for my husband and my newfound infatuation with YouTube, I'll confess to not feeling especially romantic this week--Valentine's Day or no. I attribute my marked lack of enthusiasm for the heart-filled holiday to the Cold Virus From Hell that's plagued me for seven straight days and held me hostage to my Kleenex box and my teapot. And I'm still not over the damn thing.
Once upon a time, a guy I knew informed me that the sucky things in life made sense to him once he finally started approaching each day with the belief that "good health and happiness are meant to be the exceptions, not the rule. That illness and discontent are, actually, the normal state for your average human, and when we feel good physically and emotionally, that's life at its most abnormal..." (Yeah, he was an upbeat guy.)
During this week filled with cough medicine and restless nights, the thought of good health as the anomaly crossed my mind. Several times. Indeed, I contemplated a great many philosophical questions (I was up for hours, after all) including: Is life really just one long, depressing road pockmarked with hazards and with only the occasional smooth patch to give relief?
My conclusion? Not in my universe.
True, I may have been a little high on Sudafed when I made this decision, but I was willing to tolerate this cold, not embrace it as normal. And, while I realize I'm most at home in the realm of "fiction" and that the real world doesn't owe me either good health OR happiness, I'm convinced if I live my life with the optimistic expectation of both--and express my gratitude when they cross my path--I just have to have faith I'll come closer to actually achieving them than if I deem them rarities.
Regardless, breathing freely again makes me happy. Even happier than all the Valentine's Day chocolate I got yesterday...and that's saying something.