Yikes, busted…

This moment of self-awareness smacked me in the face as if from the fog outside my windows just now. It’s such a deliciously sneaky little phrase… “Joy of missing out.” It represents a guilty pleasure… because, you know, I could have gone, I could have seen it all firsthand, I could have lived to tell about it, brought the stories back… Instead, known only to me was the joy of comfort: my environment, my simple pleasures, my chosen company, not in rejection of anything, rather in full-hearted embrace of the best of the best for this time. The deep lovely joy of missing out.

For legit reasons, I do opt for comfort a lot, but because I’m still so damnably fascinated by everything there’s no disconnect between me and the world, may that ever be true. Bless my mom and her hungry intellect, and her determination that her kids not be deprived of knowledge simply for the fact of living in the middle of legendary NoWhere. And bless technology for the way it helps to level the playing field in every direction – economically, regionally, generationally, on and on. No one has to bow out of the conversation unless they choose to for their own reasons – the decision to miss out for the unique joy of it, for the sake of the alternative that’s offered.

Kim calls it knowing how to be satisfied, a mantra that has kept us arm-in-arm for fifteen years and counting. But who’s counting? 💙

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