Sometimes I forget the reasons I do what I'm doing.
Sometimes I forget why it is that I get up at five-thirty in the morning and work a job I'm, at best, ambivalent about for nine hours a day, five days a week.
Sometimes, especially the times I don't have time to make coffee and hang out with the cat and read a book before I run out the door to work, and most especially the times that I do have time to make coffee and end up looking at pictures of my friend's safari in Kenya where she saw leopards, lions, gazelle, baby rhinos, hippos, giraffes, and the Great Rift Valley where all life on earth originated, and it's raining on an African plain and she's all smiling happily with her husband and her freakin perfect marriage and her fluency in Arabic and her stupidly awesome Fulbright scholarship to get her masters in Cairo, Egypt, right before I have to go into work and sit at a cubicle and adhere to a dress code--well, those times are the times I want to fall to my knees and cry, "Why, God?! Why?! What did I do wrong? What terrible decisions did I make that put me here instead of on a happy little safari in Kenya?*"
Then I find this.
Somehow Elizabeth Gilbert and her sage advice seem to show up exactly on time, whenever I need them.
*What I actually do is call my grandmother on the way to work, and she says remarkably sage things as well, like "Firstly, you're not supposed to be in Kenya right now, which is why you're not there, and secondly, you've been to France and Germany and England and Belgium and the Netherlands and Spain and to all but six states in the U.S. and you live in Arizona, so to some people you've done the equivalent of going to Kenya." And then I stop crying.