The Luckiest

I have this friend who is tall and thin and beautiful and cool. We grew up together and she was always tall and thin and beautiful and cool.  She had one attractive, bad-boy boyfriend after another when we were young.  If you had asked me when I was 16, or 18 or, shit, even 23 which one of us would have the awesome life when they were 34, I would have hands-down said her. I was the insecure chubby sidekick friend. She looked like Uma Thurman. It had to be her.

I haven't talked to my friend in a while -- that's what happens when you grow up and move to opposite parts of the country -- and I don't mean to in any way disparage her life. Her life is probably awesome for her, and I love and support her in anything that she chooses to do with it.

But me? I know that really, I'm the lucky one. I'm the one with the awesome life.   I'm the one with the handsome green-eyed lawyer husband who rubs my feet and makes a mean burrito.  The one who owns a cute house with a white fence and a backyard for my awesome dog.  The one with the decent, steady job. A group of  friends who make this non-home-town feel like home. About to have a baby.  

Of course, she may not want any of these things.  But I do. I always did. It's strange to be at a point in my life where I feel like I am exactly where I want to be, to have everything I've ever wanted; it's weird, in a way.  How lucky I am that I get to live my life.