In the 1980s, when I was in my 20s, Anna Quindlen published a column in the New York Times called "Life in the 30s." I read it religiously. I loved her voice. I loved what she had to say. In fact, it was eerie how often her subject reflected exactly what I had been talking or thinking about just when it came out. I applaud her impressive career - as a columnist, novelist, and as much as anything, carrying that off as she's also an active mother, wife and friend. (And since I'm lucky enough to have a mutual friend... I know this is indeed true and not just publicity fodder.) I don't hang on each column the way I used to (are all politics personal?), but every once and awhile there's one that makes me jump up and shout. Like this one.
I come from a line of worriers. My mother called her mother everyday. She tends to play it safe. I worry too but I fight against it. In fact, that was the greatest gift I learned in moving to Fiji for a year. The exhilaration that it was possible, that it was fun, that it was manageable, that all the safeguards we cling to so often in our coddled American lives just aren't necessary. I don't need excessive risk either - that carries its own life comprising addiction, but joive de vivre? Yes.