When the day started, I was feeling pretty good about life, the universe and everything. I’d slept late for the second straight day. The sun was shining and the sky was clear. I didn’t have to go anywhere or do anything in particular. And of the things that had to be done, I could pretty much decide on any whim that might occur to me which of those things I would bother myself with.

Then, for some reason, I started feeling guilty. I remembered the ups and downs of the first ten days of the new year, and how much I’d allowed myself to be done in by petty, transitory trials. It seemed to have been a necessary part of getting by to have something to worry about, or complain about, or both. It saddened me that I have to put myself through such moaning, when I know that there will be days like this to come. Perfect days, or nearly.

So I reminded myself of something I often forget: That’s just the way I am. I don’t pretend to feel better or worse than I actually feel, and I have a tendency to let small things get to me. Maybe I’d be a happier person if I didn’t do that, but then I’d be someone else, not myself. So I decided to take this (nearly) perfect day for what it was, and know that good days and bad days are ahead, and I’ll feel good and bad accordingly.

It’s not as if I can decide to be a different person, and then make it happen. All I can do is try to remember that it’s all part of an ebb and flow, and the only control I have is how I get from one day to the next. At least, for all my complaining, I don’t give up. There’s something to be said for answering the bell every day, even on those days when I’d rather stay in bed.