It is Thursday, October 31, 1991. My girlfriend Julie sits in my family room surrounded by books. She is knee deep in her Ph.D. program and already feeling the stress of multiple classes, a teaching assistantship, and initial research exploration.

It was Halloween, and as usual, I overbought on the candy. I had arranged to be home early to pass out the treats, and I had also invited Julie over for dinner. She already knew that I could cook. I was stressed by work and I didn’t feel the need to impress her with my culinary skills. The easy dinner solution was to order Chinese carryout.

Just up the street was the now defunct, “Chan’s Kitchen,” my closest Chinese restaurant. A place so familiar with me that they knew my order before I had to utter it. I dialed them up and was greeted by a strong female Chinese accent. “Chan’s Kitchen, can I help you? Oh Kuna, the usual? It will be ready in 20 minutes.”

A quick trip and I was back with plastic and cardboard containers filled with Americanized Asian delicacies. I plopped the paper bag on the table and pulled a few plates from the cupboard. I had asked for chopsticks and put them on top of the plates in all their paper sleeved glory.

Vince, my boss at the time, had been pleased with some work that I had done and gave me a huge and very fancy gift box filled with all sorts of good stuff. Among the prizes was a large magnum of Cristal. I’m not much of a drinker and far from an expert, but I did know that champagne was a wine that did not age well. I didn’t want it to go faulty. “Hey Julie, do you want some fancy champagne to compliment our carry-out? “ “Sure, “ she said.

I didn’t have any champagne flutes and we made due with a couple of wine glasses from Crate and Barrel. We are both light drinkers, but the fruity sweetness of the champagne went down well with the salty goodness of the Chinese food.

There we were, sitting at my kitchen table, plates heaped, glasses full, candles lit, Dexter Gordon’s mellow tenor sax playing in the background. Life was good and for very inexperienced champagne drinkers it just seemed to be getting better with each sip.

The doorbell was constantly ringing and we both would rush to the door to see the latest costume. As we ate and drank the outfits seemed to be getting ever cuter. We decided to finish the bottle, as we thought that the fizziness could not be contained by a replacement cork. Anyway, how bad could this stuff be? It almost tasted like soda pop… or so we thought.

Dear readers, as I mentioned I have very low tolerance to alcohol. I usually drink a single glass or wine, or a single beer. Even at that level, I can feel it. Julie is a bit more tolerant, but not by much.

Finally, the last trick-or-treater came and left. The magnum was empty. I would have to say that the feeling that I had was “unique.” I was happy, actually silly. At the same time I was dizzy and I wasn’t too sure if I was correctly feeling the floor (or my nose, for that matter). Julie was in a similar state. We laughed, we snorted, we commented on the cute costumes, we continued to eat.

The next day was a day of lessons, as my alcohol naive body clearly let me know that I had done something… well, not good. Foggy, somewhat sick, and with a massive headache that refused to respond to acetaminophen, I faced the work day. As sick as I was on Friday, I still had pleasant memories from that 1991 Halloween Thursday.

Last night was Halloween, 2017. Julie was working late and I ordered Chinese. This time from the computer, not the telephone. I had to rely on the web descriptions and (as usual) way over ordered. Our kids were away. Julie picked up the food on her way home from work and I lit some candles. We sat among curry chicken, fried wonton, and tofu shrimp. Now filling paper plates instead of china ones. Now using more practical forks instead of sophisticated chopsticks; each of us having only a small glass of wine. We reminisced over past Chinese Halloweens, as Chinese food on October 31st has now become a 26-year tradition. The doorbell rang, over and over. The cuteness of costumes less evident without the benefit of “champagne goggles.” Twenty-six years… Twenty-six years! A long time ago, yet a memory fresh.

Our tradition of Chinese Halloween came by accident, and it is now part of our family tradition. However, the addition of Cristal has not been repeated. Traditions come from many places and gain a significance of history. Halloween without Chinese food would simply not be Halloween.

Eight twenty Sunday morning, I shout down the hall.  “We have to leave now.”  Julie responds, “I’m ready.”  We get into the Flex and make the 10 minute trip to Butterfield’s breakfast restaurant.  We arrive exactly on time, 8:30 AM.

We enter and are met by the vanilla sweet smell of pancakes and the hellos of my sister Nancy and my brother-in-law Mike.  Mike offers a funny comment, which I only half hear due to the clatter of plates and my less-than-perfect hearing.  I smile and nod.

The host arrives and I instruct her that we need a quiet table for 6. She leads us to a round table towards the back of the restaurant.  Strong coffee is poured, and we all start to sip.

In a few minutes my sister Carol arrives smiling.  She apologizes for being late, she was up late babysitting.  We all nod and welcome her.  We wait for my sister-in-law Kathy to arrive until someone remembers that she wasn’t coming due to a previous engagement,  in this case a date.  My brother Dave passed away a few years ago and Kathy is dating again.  We all comment how happy we are that she is getting out and enjoying her life.

The waitress arrives and passes out laminated menus.  We take them and scan them in earnest. I find the process amusing, as we always order the same thing.  Swedish pancakes for Mike,  scrambled eggs for Nancy, omelets for Carol and Julie.  I always get the Lox and bagel plate, and I always order a styrofoam carrier to bring half of it back home.

Our chatting continues.  My family has never learned the fine art of conversation, and it is perfectly acceptable to interrupt each other as we build and add to our conversation streams. Of course, it is also OK to tell the interrupter to, “Wait, I’m not done talking!”

Nancy and Mike talk about their new, and at this point nameless dog.  As Nancy recollects the sudden loss of Toby (their last dog) she tears up.  “I don’t know if we can handle this dog.  He is so active.  Jeannine said she would take him if we can’t.”  I know my sister, nameless has entered their home, never to leave.

Carol recounts events from her recent life.  Time with her kids, talk of her grandkids, and her lifelong desire to become more organized and to simplify her life. Julie talks about our kids and updates the family about the grandkids.  She reflects on her psychotherapy business, now pretty successful.  I focus on my latest obsession, my upcoming retirement.  Lately, I have been pondering my next step.  I feel compelled to write, to take photos, to be creative.  I anguish, “Will anyone care about what I have to say?”  Carol reassures me that I write in an engaging style.  She ends by saying, “Mike I would comment on your post if I could figure out how to do it.”  I nod, as I know that she would.  My brilliant sister Carol does many things well, but she still has trouble with the simplest computer task. “When I get organized I’m going to learn how to do it.”  A statement that I have heard many times through the years.

I was the youngest child in our family of five siblings.  My two brothers are now gone.  In their place are my wife Julie, my brother-in-law Mike, and my sister-in-law Kathy. After decades together we are all siblings, with no distinction based on biology.

Our sibling breakfasts have become a tradition that happens every 6 weeks or so.  The format varies slightly from time to time, but their overall significance remains.  Sibling breakfast is a way for us to connect and celebrate our bonds with each other.  The meetings can sometimes be a vehicle for support or advice, but its main purpose of one of connection.

The waitress comes by and picks up our plates.  She offers more coffee, but we all decline.  Despite our lack of food and drink, we linger.  Our conversation continues until I finally say, “We need to set up a time for the next breakfast.”  Participants pull out their appointment books or smartphones as we negotiate our next get together.  We ask the waitress to take our picture, stand, and put on our coats.  Hugs and goodbyes follow.

It is still early in the morning, enough time for Julie and I to make to church.  During the service I utter a silent prayer, “God, thank you for my siblings and sibling breakfast.”

A chilly morning, the tip of my nose still cold as I type this.

I enter Starbucks and I am greeted by Smokey Robinson’s, “Tracks Of My Tears.” It is a happy sounding song whose upbeat tempo is in direct contrast with its lyrics. I tune into the happy tempo and ignore the sad lyrics.

My friend Tom is acting as the contractor for a window replacement at my house. He stopped by to supervise, which meant that I got to see him a few times yesterday. Bonus.

Our house was filled with the smells of baking. Julie had made some yeast rolls for the family, and my step-mother’s Winter Apple Cake for her small group at church. There is nothing like the intoxicating smell of baking on a cold fall day.

After dinner, we went to Band-A-Rama. It is a high school event where the various school bands play separately and then together. Grace is the first chair oboe in SWE (Symphonic Wind Ensemble), the top band at the high school.

Since the concert features 4 different bands it was held in the school’s fieldhouse instead of the auditorium. This meant foregoing the nice theater seats in lieu of the bleachers. Bleachers seem to negatively impact my back after about 30 minutes.

We sat down and soon Julie’s friend Glynis and her husband Tom sat next to us. Glynis is an English professor and a salt-of-the-earth kind of person. Julie and Glynis have been friends since Julie formed a mother/daughter book club around 15 years ago. After a few pleasantries, I turned to my phone to see what settings I would use to record parts of the performance.

Heavy in concentration I felt someone deliberately lean on me from the other side. It was Joe, my neighbor. He coached my kids in T-ball decades ago. We entered into conversation about our kids and the neighborhood before the music started.

The concert was long due to the fact that each band had to play a few pieces. Luckily, high school bands play pretty well and the experience was enjoyable. At one point one of Gracie’s friends came by and motioned a hello.

At the end of the concert, I ran into Jennifer and her husband. She is a Clinical Psychologist who works in my office. I nodded a greeting to her and her husband. Next to them was John and his wife Helen. John retired about 4 years ago and he was there to see his grandkids perform. He looked at me and as if he could read my mind he said, “Mike, you are going to love retirement.”

My daughter’s high school has almost 3000 students. How great it was to have so many nice people to interact with.

As SWE played Simple Gifts from Aaron Copland’s “Appalachian Spring,” I thought that it was truly a day of simple gifts for me.

NNHS: “Simple Gifts”

Another rainy day. Another great excuse to stay in bed.

But how do I sustain a desired behavior? For me, the answer is reasonable consistency. When I establish a new pattern of behavior the more I do that behavior the more likely I am to do it.

It is 5:30 AM on Saturday morning. I have claimed a little round table at Starbucks, and I’m ready to write. Claiming may be an overstatement, as I’m the only customer in the shop. This morning I packed a little Chromebook in an over-the-shoulder bag that I bought on Amazon for about $19. The Amazon photo of the messenger bag gave it the look of stylishly aged fine leather. The actual product resembles an item made of cardboard with a cheap “Contact Paper” leather veneer. So much for truth in advertising!

I am reflecting on last night, Friday night.

The end of my workday, my phone beeped. It was my friend Tom asking me if I was about to leave Rockford. We exchanged a few text messages. I finished my last progress note, packed up my computer, donned my Aussie cowboy hat, and stepped into the day.

The weather outside was beautiful. In fact, I would say that it was a perfect fall day. Seventy degrees, a light breeze, and the wonderful smell of fall. It is about 90 miles from home, and so I was grateful that the drive would be pleasant.

My iPhone automatically connected to the car’s Bluetooth audio system as I drove off. I placed a call to my sister Nancy. She answered the phone and immediately commented on the wonderful weather. She was camping in central Illinois and was enjoying the breeze from her pop-up screen house. The drive passed quickly as we talked over speakerphone. How is my family doing? How is her family doing? Did she find a new dog yet? She comments on my “Money and Mike” blog post. She grew up in the same household as me and held many of the same fears.

Nancy is a retired psychotherapist and it is easy to get into “psych-speak” with her. We both come to the conclusion that the fear of money is actually a fear of not having control of our lives. She then tells me about the joys of retirement. “Every day is Saturday, Mike.” She suggests, “Won’t it be fun to just come over and visit me for no reason? We can go exploring or out to lunch!” We both love exploring towns and local culture. I smile to myself. She is right, it will be awesome to have the freedom to not be productive. I confide in her, “I have spent my life taking care of other people. It feels wonderful when someone takes care of me.”

I find myself at home. I go inside to find my daughter Grace there. We exchange a few pleasant words. I look out my study window and there is Tom parking a huge dumpster in my driveway. He is a wonderful friend and he has offered to replace my windows.Tom is a general contractor who owns his own dumpster. For some reason, I find that fact very cool. Tom brings out the “Bob the Builder” in me. When I “help” him on a project (gofer would be a better term) I feel like I’m 12 again. It is wonderful to be less than perfect, to use my hands, and allow someone else to be the responsible one.

I go outside and greet Tom and his son Charlie. The dumpster already has a few odd pieces in it. A glass shower door, a giant mirror, and some other stuff. The three of us climb up on the wheel wells and proceed to throw large objects in as we attempt to break the glass. Charlie is the only one in the group who is under 10, but at that moment I feel about that old as I experience the sheer joy of my silly actions. Carol, my next door neighbor appears and smiles a hello to me. I ask her if she wants to come over and break some stuff. Another smile flashes on her face as she declines and returns to the confines of her home.

I invite Tom and Charlie in. I come from a culture where you show caring and hospitality with food, and I immediately start to offer both of them food options. Finally, Tom accepts some fizzy water and Charlie goes for a popsicle. We sit at the kitchen table with Grace who is snacking on a bowl of microwaveable Vietnamese Pho noodles.

Grace gets to see a video of Charlie’s latest guitar accomplishments. We talk about Pho noodles. Tom’s glasses break and he curses barely under his breath. We discuss the Cubs defeat, gene splicing and genetically modified fruit, Gracie’s college choices, Tom’ s angst over an unreliable plumber sub-contractor. The conversation continues until Tom signals to Charlie that it is time to go home.

I walk out with them to say goodbye and Mercury the cat bolts out the door. It is dark and Mercury is a solid black cat. Grace and I go looking for her using our phones as flashlights. Finally, common sense reigns, we return inside and leave the patio door open. Within 2 minutes Mercury is back inside. Her behavior suggests that she is happy that her misadventure is over.

Julie walks in with a bag of groceries. Salad fixings, a broasted chicken, and some grocery store sushi. I make myself a salad and add large chunks of chicken to it. I pour myself a glass of suspect box wine. Julie tastes my glass and turns up her nose. “No thanks,” she says. She opens up a bottle of the good stuff. Good meaning probably about a $6 purchase. We sit at the table. I sip, munch on my salad, and chomp on the sushi. We ask each other about our day and talk a bit about politics.

The family group text channel beeps, and it is Will, my son. He sends a picture from Menards where he is shopping with his friend Joe. The day before Will informed me that Joe always carries extra oil in his 18-year-old minivan because it leaks like a sieve. I’m glad that he is only about 5 minutes away.

My conversation with Julie continues. At this point I can’t remember what we were talking about, it doesn’t really matter. Julie’s phone beeps again and it is Kathryn, my Arizona college student. Kathryn recounts a trip to Trader Joe’s and sends a picture or two of her purchases. She tells Julie that her roommate thought Julie was 40 years old. “She thought you must have had me when you were very young.” Both of us realize that Kathryn is pulling Julie’s leg. Julie still likes the comment and smiles.And so my evening went. Nothing really, a typical Friday in many ways.

For me, these kinds of days are my favorite. Connecting with people that I care about. The significance of the insignificant. We weren’t solving problems or having great adventures, we were just connecting. Our conversations were simply  frameworks to allow those connections to occur.

We live in a world that prizes purpose. People get together to do things, go places, buy stuff. In reality, we mostly connect because we are social creatures. By our connections we build bonds, and we enrich our lives. Last night was spent connecting with people that I love and care about. A perfect Friday evening.

I sit, computer open, word processor loaded.  I wait.  I can’t say that I’m waiting for great inspiration, I waiting for anything to get my fingers to move on the keyboard.  I try to quiet my brain, I try to access my subconscious. I think about my walk to Starbucks.  What did I see?  What did I think? What ideas were generated?   

Ahh… OK, something is coming in…

I feel that some chapters are closing in my life.  Some planned, others not. There is the retirement thing.  Planned and in process.  However, there are so many aspects of this process that were unanticipated.  At this late date, it feels like there are many loose ends.

I worry about my retirement, and that worry mostly centers around money.  I have planned for retirement. I have saved and invested.  Yet, this fear is prominent in my mind.  I have had the luxury of buying what I wanted for many years.  Yesterday a large flat box appeared on my doorstep.  It contained a particle board computer desk. Cost around $200.  The desk will replace one that is over 25 years old.  The former desk designed for the technology of the 1990s, not 2017.  My wife questioned me.  Julie, “Why did you buy a desk?”   Me, “I have two monitors at work that I’ll bring home. The current desk won’t hold them.”  Julie, “You have two monitors at work?” (rise in voice interpreted as critical of me).  Me, “Yes.”  Julie, “Well, what are you going to do with the monitor that you have now?” (somewhat higher rise in voice)  Me, “I don’t know, maybe I’ll use it in the telepsych studio.”  Julie, “hmm.” A simple transaction of words that happened over the course of about 30 seconds.  An exchange so simple that it did not require any additional thought. Yet, it impacted me.

“Doc, you are a psychiatrist. If the interchange bothered you, why didn’t you talk about your feelings?”  Dear reader, it is important to realize that we live in complex worlds.  If every interaction was deconstructed and parsed there would be no time for the process of living.  

Was Julie being critical?  Possibly, but possibly not.  She may have just been making conversation.  But what about her tone? She had just come back from the auto mechanic, a place where she feels out of place and inadequate. After 25 years of marriage, I understand that she tries to exert more control after situations where she feels less in control.  This was a trivial event that did not indicate a major problem in our marriage.

What was more important was my reaction to our conversation. I had to resist the urge to strongly defend the purchase of a $200 particle board table. My mind quickly came up with a variety of reasons why such a purchase was necessary.  Why I had made a wise and thoughtful decision.  Thankfully, I was able to shut down the process before the words left my mouth.

Everything in life can be a lesson, a learning opportunity if you allow it to be so.  Growing up with little, I wanted things.  I had to strongly justify any purchase, even when I was the person paying for the desired item.  With effort, I could get things, but there was always an undertone of foolishness.  “Do you really need that scientific calculator?” I would then have to justify why a college science major needed a scientific tool. The implication being that my purchase was somehow extravagant, selfish, and unnecessary.  

I have earned a good living and I have been able to buy most things that I have wanted at will.  I always had money to pay the bills, go on vacations, save for the future.  More importantly, I didn’t have to justify rational (and sometimes irrational) purchases.  It has been a tremendous relief for me. I can’t imagine returning to a life where I have to explain to someone why I bought a new T-shirt or a carton of sour cream.

So what is the bottom line, dear reader?  I will buy less because I will have less. However, I will not play the tapes of old.  My history has shown me that I have been a good steward of my finances.  My house is paid for, I have no debt.  I may purchase things that are unnecessary at times.  I may even regret some of those purchases.  However, I am who I am.  I won’t burden Julie with my past guilt about doing things for myself.  I won’t incorrectly interpret her comments based on my past history.  I will enjoy life.  

I expect the next few years to be a time of adjustment and a time of growth.  As stressful as it can be, I like the fact that I’m revisiting so many issues that I had thought long resolved.  It isn’t like I’m going back to the past, rather I’m refining past corrections and exploring new horizons.  Perhaps it is symbolic of the fact that I’m not looking at the end of my career, rather I’m exploring the start of my retirement. A good thing, I think.

Another thundery night.
The peals powerful, yet comforting.
I debate with myself.
An excuse to stay inside, for sure.
At 5 AM my iPhone beeps.
A text from my friend.
He warns me of the thunder and urges me to stay put.
He knows my obsessive ways.
I smile to myself, it feels good to be concerned for.
I debate with myself.
On ducks, on jacket, up umbrella.
One foot in front of another, I venture out.
The heavy air quiets the streets.
The thunder has scared away the joggers and dog walkers.
The streets belong to me this morning.
One foot in front of the other, thankful for today.

(I started this post on Wednesday morning, 10/11/17)

I stayed up later than I should have last night.  My reason only partially rational, more because of my obsessiveness than anything else. I have always been an obsessive comparer, examiner, and learner.  I usually try to combine this aspect of my personality with tasks as a way to add interest, motivation, and energy to the project at hand.  This quirky quality has been part of my secret sauce of success. By joining an obsessive interest with a task I not only move forward on that task, but I also learn more about my interest du jour. Some may think of obsessiveness as a liability.  However, I choose to turn negatives into positives. If all you have are potatoes to eat don’t fret, empower yourself and learn how to make potato soup!

One of my goals, when I retire, has been to write more. A while back I decided that I was going to start that process before retirement as the more I would practice writing the better writer I would become (in theory anyway).

I felt I could be more motivated and more productive if I did some of my writing outside of my house.  The Riverwalk, the library, Starbucks, wherever.  Naturally, this idea created more obsessional questions. What device should I write on? Which software? When should I write?  As you can see I like thinking about trivial things.  In reality, I can’t shut down my brain; my ever running brain can sometimes be annoying at times, even to me.

I have been trying out various gadgets to compose on.  My iPhone, my iPhone with a folding keyboard, an iPad Mini.  Last night I dug through my gadget collection and came up with what I am typing on now, an 11” MacBook Air.  This may sound impressive until you realize that this is one of the original Airs, built in 2010 (now almost an 8-year-old computer).  I bought it when I would spend every Thursday night at the Rockford Holiday Inn. Now, I wasn’t even sure that it would power up, but I was determined to locate it and try.  I was up late finding the computer, its power brick, a bag to carry it in… well you get the picture.  All of the above was a poor excuse to stay up late.

Finally asleep, the rain and thunder came.  Boom, splash, boom… sleep interrupted.  At 3:40 AM my alarm went off and I felt like… well, death.  I hit the snooze bar once but I knew that I had to either give in to sleep or force my body upright. Although it looked terrible outside my feet were on the floor, face washed, teeth brushed.  

I have planned for inclement weather and I have waterproof “duck” shoes, a rain jacket, and an umbrella.  Those articles of clothing purchased after a different obsessive thinking process a few years back.  The goal then was to make sure that I wouldn’t have a reason to not walk in the mornings.  That planning has paid off many times; I may get damp, but I always have dry feet!

I am not saying that my obsessive planning should be the model for others to follow, it can be pretty crazy.  With that said I work with people all of the time who do no planning.  They impulsively make decisions with magical thinking.  They spend money that they don’t have and think that somehow that money will appear when the charge card bill comes.  They get involved in bad relationships on an impulsive attraction forgetting past disasters that were similarly motivated. They make major decisions, like quitting a job without acquiring a new one. Usually, these folks are resourceful and they seem to get by.  However, it is a pattern of short-term gratification followed by long-term stress. Sadly, they often continue to think that the next cycle of impulsiveness will solve their problems. Once again getting quick short-term relief followed by long-term misery. Over the long run even resourcefulness fails, resulting in tremendous financial stress, relationship stress and emotional stress.

It would seem that the best life solution for most people would be somewhere between obsessiveness and impulsiveness.  A place of balance.  However, we no longer live in a moderate world, we live in a world of extremes.  Absolute artificial boundaries where once lived gradations of options.

We are creatures of habit but we have the capacity to change.  Why not explore your patterns of behavior.  If you are getting unsatisfactory outcomes in your life it may be time to change.

There are aspects of my work that I will miss, and aspects of my work that I am happy to leave. Talking to nice people fits into the former category, begging insurance companies to uphold their obligations falls in the latter category.

Yesterday, I was talking to a client. She is a nice lady who I have known for a number of years. She was recounting a recent trip back home, and she was surprised that the trip had gone well. You see, she comes from a large family of successful siblings. She noted to me that she typically feels like the failure of the family. She is a single mom, and all of her siblings are married. They seem to have charmed lives, financial wealth, fantastic kids… well, you get the picture.

I looked at her and said, “Let’s review your life.” She had a look on her face that suggested both surprise and concern. I reminded her the following:

You have successfully raised a wonderful daughter, on your own.
You have supported yourself for most of your adult life.
You own your own residence, in a nice community.
You are saving for your retirement.
You have friends that care about you and a daughter who loves you.
You drive a safe care.
… and so I went on.

I concluded by reminding her what a great success she was. She not only managed to take care of her needs but her daughter’s needs as well. Naturally, her life isn’t’ perfect. There are always areas of wants. Perhaps a little more money, a bigger place to live, a solid romantic relationship. However, her wants were insignificant compared to all of her successes.

As I was counseling her I was also thinking. Why is it that we are so programmed to look at other people’s lives through rose-colored glasses, and our own lives through dingy and dirty ones?

Of course, there are many reasons. One is the reasons is what I like to call Facebook reality.

I share stories with my patients if I think that they have therapeutic value. I’m not the stereotype blank screen of the 1960’s psychiatrist. I think it is important for them to know that I am like them, a real and relatable person.

This is the story that I told her…

A number of years ago I started to make dinner with my kids. My wife had returned to the paid workforce, and the kids were complaining about the switch from homemade food to frozen pizza and bagged burgers. I thought it would be both fun, and a learning experience to make real meals together. We would plan, cook, eat, and clean up together. This has been a wonderful family experience, and my kids have become competent cooks of real food.

Part of this new tradition is that I post a photo of our finished meal on Facebook. That food shot is taken before we sit down to eat. I prepare the plate carefully. I choose the nicest piece of chicken, the plumpest crescent roll, the most artful salad. I’ll usually take the photo at several angles, and I’ll pick the most flattering one. I then edit the photo. I crop out distracting elements, add a vignette, and do other things to draw attention to the food. It is only then that I post the photo under the title “Cooking With Dad Thursday.”

This ritual has become a somewhat of a family inside joke. It doesn’t show the burnt rolls or the piece of chicken where half of the breading has fallen off. It is reality, but a carefully crafted reality that shows only the best that we have to offer, and that best is shown in the best possible light.

I asked her if she was dealing with Facebook reality when she visits her family. Only the best pieces of her sibling’s lives are shown to her, and only in the best possible light. How easy it would be to feel like a failure if the only point of reference that you had was artificially perfect.

We see Facebook reality everywhere. The model with perfect makeup hawking a beauty product. The “real lives” of people on TV who live in multi-million dollar homes. The neighbor’s recounts of their fantastic exotic vacation. It is so easy to become dissatisfied with our truly real lives where we compare them with the Facebook reality of others.

I think it is important for all of us to remember how fortunate we are. How the positives in our lives usually greatly outweigh the negatives. Our lives were never meant to be perfect. We can choose to celebrate our blessings or choose to live in a cesspool of dissatisfaction and envy.