I am a recovering complainer.
We were having a picnic lunch on a beautiful May afternoon. There were three moms and four children. While the children played, the moms talked. I remember talking about my house. Actually, I did a lot of talking about my house. I had a lot of complaints. I live in a 117-year-old house that, by default, we are fixing up. It is one problem after another. Not only did I complain about all there is to fix, but I also complained about the layout, the size of the rooms, the lack of closets, the location of the bathrooms, the lack of air conditioning… I’ll stop there. The picnic ended. We parted ways.
Not long after the picnic, one of the three moms invited all of us over to her house. I parked in front and my daughter and I followed the sidewalk to the back of the house where there was a tiny backyard. We greeted each other and were given a tour of the house. I thought my house had small rooms. I thought my house had problems. Her living room was smaller than our office. There was one bedroom for four people, and it was smaller than my bedroom. The floor was uneven. It was dark. It was crowded. I was embarrassed. I had complained about my house and here she lived in a smaller, more run down home than I did. I felt terrible. Read More