Black lives matter, white lives matter, blue lives matter, all lives matter. We must value each other but ultimately we must value ourselves.

Am I respecting my life? What even does this mean?

When you are twenty, life is taken for granted, living on the edge, impervious to danger, ten foot tall and bulletproof. At forty, shit is getting real, the mid life crisis is not happening to your parents anymore but your friends, colleagues and well you. At sixty, the panic is setting in, what have I done, what is on my bucket list to get done and what will my titanium screwed together body allow. At eighty, every day matters, live it as if it is your last, if you can remember to do so.

I’ll be happy when…(insert your latest thing e.g. mortgage is paid off, kids are finished school, I retire, I clean the kitchen and it stays clean). In the mean time we live like rats in a wheel, running and spinning ,running and spinning, with a little poop and a quiet drink occasionally. So busy running and spinning we forget to stop and look at the view from the wheel, scared the Jones might take over the wheel or worse yet get a better, bigger one. I am happy.

There, can you say it out loud. I am happy.

I value my life right where I am at, nothing needs to change. My status job with status stress, my neverending credit card limit, my shiny new black BMW, my silky softy new leather boots, don’t complete me. None of it matters in the end does it? Okay well I guess you can be buried in the new leather boots, dust to dust and cows they shall return.

My life matters because I wrote my eulogy. I wanted to have control even after the fact. No really, I wrote my eulogy. because I wanted to describe my value, I wanted to know I had left a mark of dignity, kindness and had led a considered life.

I wanted to make sure my life mattered.