Sometimes I look around at the world, the news, the people, and I wonder if I shouldn’t just stay single forever. I’m not going to lie — I seem to have very little faith in humanity on most days. I see glimmers of hope here and there, but not as often as I’d like.

While the only thing ticking on my person is my watch, I wonder what I’d think about if I wanted to have kids. Would I think that I could raise them as contributors who would help the world and make it better? Would I see their existence through rose-colored glasses? Or would I constantly worry about how the economy will treat their generation, whether they’ll be able to have a retirement or if the world will be so far gone by that time that I’d wish I’d never had them at all? The possibility of the latter terrifies me.

I look at Boston and wonder what the point of love is. Is it worth it to love if the life of your other half is taken by a senseless, selfish act? The negative side of me thinks that staying single forever would save me from feeling the excruciating loss that only someone who finally let their walls down for The One — then lost them — would feel. The other side of me knows it’s ridiculous to live life in such an insulated manner.

I hear people say that I should have children so that I have someone to take care of me when I’m older. I don’t know about you, but I think this is a terrible reason to have children. Who’s to say they’d live long enough to take care of me? Who’s to say they’d even want to take care of me? Who’s to say I’d live long enough to need to be taken care of by them? It’s assuming a lot. It’s assuming that a lot would fall into place, but it mostly makes the terrible assumption that I’d be OK with having kids for such a selfish reason. And I know I wouldn’t be OK with that at all.

One of my favorite singers is Dido, and her lyrics to “See the Sun” see to summarize love for me perfectly.

“Do you remember telling me you found the sweetest thing of all? You said one day of this was worth dying for.” She goes on, urging her subject to be thankful they knew that person at all, even though they’re now gone.

Whether they’re my children or my significant other, I realize in the wake of tragedy that I actually do believe in love. Although I haven’t for a long time, I believe in loving fully even though loss is always a possibility, in living even though our timelines are not known, and in all the learnings we get from both because of the better people they turn us into. Of a terrible boss I once had, I say that he taught me a lot about the kind of manager I never want to be. Of love, I say that whether it’s good or bad, long-lasting or not, it will teach me about the kind that I ultimately want for myself. For forever.

And for love, I am thankful.

Dear AMC,

How do you know me so well?

On the way home, my car asked to be washed; drizzly, misty days of late had turned it into a Dalmatian on wheels. As there was still daylight, and not wanting to spend the money at the hand wash up the street, I arrived home, dutifully busted out the Meguiar’s, my fuzzy wash mitt, chamois and started the process. Time was ticking, and I wasn’t in the mood to drive a spotted car for one more day.

Washing a car with a shoulder in the midst of physical therapy isn’t my idea of fun, but some things need to be done. Eating an egg sandwich for dinner isn’t my idea of fun either, but a severe lack of culinary inspiration will drive me to a six-minute meal every time. For the record, however, it was delicious.

Sixteen Candles greeted me as I sank into the sofa. It ended. Up next? The Breakfast Club. Sensing a delightful night of movie viewing, I checked to see what was up next. Of course! Say Anything. Love.

Aside from writing and the occasional weeknight glass of wine, there’s not much that gets me amped during the week; I like quiet nights in. But tonight I am thankful for cast after cast of characters that have spoken to generations and will speak to many more. I am thankful they turned a relaxing night into one where scenes are anticipated, where lines are recited in my head before spoken on the screen and for the countless memories from years gone by that they brought back.

Tonight I am thankful for AMC’s lineup of classic 80s films. Much needed, much appreciated.

I heard a Los Angeles man interviewed on KNX earlier this evening. He had traveled to Boston for the marathon, and was remembering the moments after the first bomb went off.

He was about to finish the race, arms extended for a photo finish, when an explosion shook him. And then another. He sustained no injuries, but said that it wasn’t lost on him that had his pace been different by 10 seconds — in either direction — he may have been wounded by one of them. Wounded, or worse.

There are times when we realize how fragile our lives are, and how quickly ours could be gone. Maybe it’s a traffic jam from an accident up ahead — an accident you could’ve been in…had you not left work late. Maybe it’s running errands in a different order that kept you from being robbed. Maybe it’s staying in because of a chilly drizzle on a dark night, instead of going out for a run and encountering an assault, being hit by a car or falling and breaking a bone.

You never know. You never know what difference 10 seconds can make in your life, but tonight I am thankful for all the delays, the plans that shifted ever so slightly for seemingly no good reason and for His hand that has guided all of my days, as well as those to come.

Prayers for Boston.

Without fail, it seems whenever I’m really in need of some quality me time, couch time or down time, the programming gods deliver one of my favorite movies:

Sleepless in Seattle, You’ve Got Mail, Dirty Dancing, The Shawshank Redemption, 300 or When Harry Met Sally.

It’s clear I’m not the only fan of these films, as they seem to often be on TV. Gotta please the masses, yes?

I needed some me time after putting in five hours of work today. The work wasn’t an issue, and it certainly wasn’t the longest weekend work day ever, but it was a gray day — a beautiful day… a day with my name all over it. Some time on the couch with a favorite film after weeks of broken sleep, a few days of fighting a cold and a circular plunger hickey on my arm is just what the doctor ordered.

Dirty Dancing, not surprisingly, was the movie that delivered. I’ve got some laundry tumbling around in the dryer, the warm, delicate scent of fabric softener making its way into the family room, a brisk evening, low clouds in the sky reflecting the city lights, cozy jammies and the perfect man on TV. Pretty sure they don’t make ’em like him anymore, but [insert swoon here] here’s hoping.

Sometimes it’s the little things that make a night fantastic, and tonight I’m thankful for all of them that filled my evening.

A few months back, I ordered a bridesmaid dress for a wedding in June (hi, Nicole!). In the store, I was pleasantly surprised that the sample dress in the same style — a smaller size than I thought I’d be ordering — actually fit.

Score. Ordered, done.

Fast forward to last weekend, and I put it on in anticipation of today’s fitting. I wanted to see exactly what might need to be done to it. I assumed a hemming was in order, at minimim — maybe it would need to be taken in under the arms, too.

OK, or not. There was a problem. A big, tight problem.

Long story short, and you might’ve guessed by the subject line of today’s post, my dress is a little snug. OK, a lot snug. But if I don’t breathe, I should be fine.

I am a whopping one pound different from when I ordered the dress, and it wasn’t about to zip up comfortably.

“Oh, the sample you tried on was stretched out then,” the store said. Well that’s awesome.

The good news is that the alterations gal said that I’m maybe 3-5 pounds off my mark, the mark being the dress that I need to shimmy into. No worries there, that’s an easy enough fix.

“Do you want to order the next size up?” one of the other girls asked.

Oh, heeeeeeeeeeell no. Come on, now — give a girl a little credit. Order the next size up and have it be roomy when I only have 3-5 lbs to go? No, thank you.

Today, after a week of stressing out, cutting out most bread products and wondering what sort of corset or extra panel they’d be able to add to the dress to help me out, I was pleasantly surprised to know that the dress is essentially a non-issue. With eight weeks to go, I know I can get the job done — and for that, I am thankful.

Whew.

One of the reasons I dislike the news isn’t because I don’t like being informed — it’s because I have a low tolerance for, well, stupidity.

It seems like every time I turn around, something else is being legislated, new rules are put in place, more restrictions are imposed because people shirk their duties as human beings — human beings who, by virtue of having one in the first place, need to use their brains more. People like to point to hindsight as being the driving force for these laws and regulations, but I like to point to a lack of accountability.

Hindsight tells me that if I cause an accident, I need to be more cautious and less distracted. It shouldn’t say, for example, that backup cameras on all vehicles are the solution.

Hindsight whispers in my ear that it doesn’t want more red tape — it wants people to use their brains. It is pleading for the return of common sense. It is desperate for thinking before speaking, for careful consideration before action and for planning instead of whim-ing.

While it appreciates being the subject of an often used phrase, it doesn’t like that we think it’s 20/20. It sometimes wishes it were fuzzier and crappier, because then maybe we’d think more.

Think first.

From a young age, we learned to color inside the lines. When we got older, we learned to stay within the lanes while driving. These days, I don’t think people go sideways because there aren’t enough rules; I think they go sideways simply because they can — because they want to make a statement, because they want their 15 minutes of fame, because they have a point to prove, or because they think people will take notice.

All I notice is how ridiculous the world is becoming.

Tonight, I am thankful for the thinkers, the deliberators, the careful planners and the accountable ones. I just wish there were more of them.

“Rehab Addict” on HGTV featured a house that was saved from demolition and restored to its original(ish) beauty. The home was purchased for a dollar.

It made me think about what’s important in life. Hint: it’s not money, although that’s certainly good to have and can go a long way.

It’s the elbow grease. It’s fighting for what you know is right. It’s pride in a job well done. It’s clicking with a good group of people who deliver on what they say and whose word you never doubt. It’s knowing you can trust someone with your dreams.

A little money can get the ball rolling, but the hard work is where it’s at. Sitting back and realizing that something can live or die by your hands is powerful. It can be a home renovation, a personal project or a relationship. If it’s meant to be, you’ll feel it yield to your touch. It can be shaped, encouraged and will take on new life. When it doesn’t, it could be time to move on…but even then, it’s still possible to be proud of everything you gave.

Tonight I am thankful for the reminder of the dollar house. It’s not getting something for nothing that’s important to me, it’s turning nothing into something beautiful that I love.

So last night I went to my physical therapy appointment, and my PT dude put some new moves on me.

While he was working on my shoulder, he manipulated a few vertebrae that ended up significantly reducing some tension in my arm. I had no idea it had gotten mixed up in this mess, too.

At one point, he walked away, but came back a minute later with something I never would’ve expected: a small toilet plunger.

He explained that it worked wonders at suctioning onto the skin, which would let him pull, tug and really loosen things up.

Hm.

He lubed up the plunger edge with some massage cream and stuck me with it. And when I say “stuck,” I mean it. That thing wasn’t coming off.

I’ve never disliked anyone more in my life; I pictured my flesh being stretched and pulled away from my person by a good two feet or so. Then it dawned on me that all the suction would likely give a girl something that’s close to one of the least attractive things in the world: a giant hickey.

I asked PT dude about the possibility if such a thing happening. “Oh yeah,” he said. “People with lighter complexions normally will see something the next day.”

Have I mentioned that I spent my entire winter indoors?

I successfully put myself to bed early last night, but woke up around 4:30 in quite a bit of pain. It took me a moment or two to realize the pain was radiating from my arm. I snoozed for another hour as best I could, then finally got up.

Right before stepping into the shower, I saw it: a massive bruise in the shape of a perfect circle on my upper arm, just below my shoulder. Hmpf.

Today, while sore, I am thankful my arm is still attached, that my flesh did not tear, and that I get to live another day — which is just long enough to make it back there for my next appointment and whack my PT guy over the head with his plunger. Silly boy.

I don’t mean to seem 76 instead of 36, but sometimes I play a game in the evenings. It’s a game in which I see how early I can get to bed. Tonight is one of those nights.

After work I went to my shoulder physical therapy, checked in on my honeymooning brother’s condo, arrived home, made a turkey taco salad, caught up on work emails, turned on Iron Chef America and put my feet up. If I play my cards right, I might just turn in by 9pm. And when it comes to obtaining maximum snoozage, as I like to call it, I’m in.

There are some nights when my energy is never-ending. I’ll plan and browse and create and dream, with no regard for the clock ticking away. Nights like tonight, I have a cold brewing, a hankering for chicken soup (not a salad) and a wish for unbroken sleep. I can’t recall the last time I had the latter.

Tonight, it feels like the stars will align. It feels like my wish might not be too much to ask, and it seems like even the cat is in need of some extra cat-nappery. I’m ready to hit snooze on today, and on my clock, the time between hitting that button and the alarm going off is about 8.5 hours. How fantastic. For all these things, I am thankful.

Every morning on my way to work, there’s a stretch of Beach Boulevard that draws birds from miles. These winged creatures, mostly pigeons, find the wide swath of grass that is littered daily with what looks like many loaves of bread. The birds are clearly in heaven.

This morning, the bread hadn’t been put out for them yet, but the birds were ready; they lined telephone wires directly overhead, waiting for their feast to be displayed.

I know pigeons don’t have the best reputation, but I’m a fan of most birds — pigeons included. I had a finch or two when I was growing up, and my roommates and I shared a parakeet named Emma in college. Late spring brings many a young crow to my front yard; they enjoy hopping around on the freshly watered lawn as their parents call out to them, cawing and urging them to take flight. My bird feeder in the backyard brings mostly chipping sparrows and mourning doves; the flowers attract hummingbirds.

I smiled this morning when I passed the pigeons as they waited for their breakfast. I was still smiling when I reached the red light a number of blocks down; I was the first car in my lane when I stopped.

Watching the traffic signals cycle through, I noticed as our left turn arrow was about to turn green that there was a terribly disheveled homeless man who had just stepped into the crosswalk in front of my lanes. I knew there was no way he’d make it in time, and apparently others saw the same thing and reached the same conclusion.

We all sat and waited. Nobody honked, not even cars behind us. We just sat patiently, the same way the pigeons half a mile earlier waited for their food. Only this man likely wasn’t crossing the street for a meal — he was simply making his way. Slowly. To where, God only knows.

His shirt was filthy, and only half tucked in; it was a long-sleeved dress shirt, royal blue in color. He had been in the sun far too much, and his shirt was striking against his brown skin. His jeans looked almost black with dirt; his shoes were untied, his hair and beard scraggly. He had a blank look on his face.

Only a few cars had a chance to get through the light before it turned red, but I was amazed at the patience and apparent understanding that was on display this morning. He needed to get somewhere, and far be it from us to rush him; our lives could be put on hold for a few more moments. I’m sure we all hoped there would be a bed, food or some comforting assistance for him when he ultimately arrived at his destination. The pigeons were clearly well taken care of, and I prayed that this man would be, too.

Tonight I am thankful for the patience of fellow motorists, and for the stark contrast of well-fed pigeons and a homeless man simply trying to cross the street. It wasn’t the most optimistic sight to see first thing, but it was a good reminder that there are so many who are less fortunate, who can use a helping hand and that anything we’re able to do — pray, donate to an organization or volunteer — is better than doing nothing at all.