Confession

I think there should be a clinical name for the plague of chronic guilt. I do my church calling, but maybe not as well as I should or could = guilt. I am good at my job, but maybe don't give the same consistent effort every day = guilt. My dishes aren't done = guilt. I don't put enough effort into my relationships as daughter, granddaughter, sister, cousin, aunt, and friend = guilt, and gratitude for the people I love who cut me some slack. I have not adopted-a-whale or donated to save the Ecuadorian rain forests = ok, no real guilt on this one.

Overcoming Chronicitus Guiltilus (my Latin is rusty) is something I work at because it requires effort to let go of negative feelings that just weigh me down. It keeps me from seeing the good things I do and the difference I can make when I focus on what is really important.

But every now and then I do something that probably warrants a little guilt. Today I went to Park City and bought my very first (and last) Coach purse = guilt doesn't begin to touch buyer's remorse.

But here's the thing. It's shiny. And it smells good. And it's pink. And it was marked down. Three times. And I know I shouldn't have. But I did. And I will love it forever. And when I am dead, I will give it to one of my cute nieces and they will love it forever. And someone somewhere will still free Willy.

So when I start to feel too bad, I will go here in my mind.

And I will be just fine. Because I have a cute pink bag. And because waves cresting in front of a setting sun is just awesome. I don't care who you are.

Then for a change of pace I might picture this...

Or this...

And who can even think of purses when boys as cute as these are giving you grins like those?

Not me.