These days, I bill it as research. But in all honesty, I (like so many of you) am curious about the existential plight of others. Why? Because it sheds light on my own. And, ultimately, on what it means to be human. So, every now and then, I log onto TruUConfessions and read strangers' anonymous confessions about their jobs and bodies, about being single, or a bride, or a wife, or a mom, or a military wife. (Don't read that last one too often.)
This one made me particularly sad:
I used to be pretty. I used to be smart. I used to be successful. I used to have great clothes. I used to be fun. I used to have friends. I used to feel sexy. I used to travel. I used to read. I used to have energy. I used to dream.
I don't know this person. Or maybe I do.
It could have been you with the deep wrinkles and screaming kids at Starbucks. It could have been you in the pinstripes and sneakers who yelled at me for no reason at the grocery store. It could have been you sitting at your desk, scrutinizing the story that is life for that inevitable and honest typo. It could have been you over there getting that midweek spa pedicure, your face buried deep in the rainbow pages of a celebrity mag. It could have been you who reads this now and thinks: that wasn't me, but it sure could have been.
The sad and simple fact: depending on the day, depending on the alignment of our cosmic clouds, it could have been any of us.