Comfort

Do you ever feel that maybe you are not experiencing all that life has to offer? Now, I'm not complaining. The universe would smack me upside the head if I complained. I have a wonderful husband, an adorable little boy. We both have good jobs, and the money that comes with them. We have a house old enough to be charming but not old enough to require expensive repairs. It comes with a forest and a big garden, and nice neighbors just far enough away. Our cars are paid for and we have no debt. In the summer, we sit on the porch steps and eat popsicles and watch the lightning bugs. In the winter I sit by the fire and knit.

Ten years ago, I did not have a husband, a child or a house. I had almost no money, no car, no college degree. I was hot in the summers, cold in the winters. I bought clothes in thrift stores. I walked to the grocery store, the library, to class. If I had many miles to go, I rode my bicycle. A bottle of wine was a special treat.

And now, I am never hot. We have central air. I am never cold. I have cashmere, a fireplace, toasty central heating. A bottle of wine is no longer a treat. I never have to walk or ride a bicycle, so I never really see the progress of the seasons, the new furniture in a lighted house at night, the very first crocus. I don't fall in love anymore. I have nothing to wish for at Christmas.

I started to give things up, to see if I could move a little bit away from this comfortable life. I stopped buying things I didn't need. I stopped eating meat. And that helped a little bit. But mostly, youth and uncertainty and glorious living breathing Life are gone now. There is just comfort left. Youth is wasted on the young, they say, and they're right.