You search without end for a way to precisely measure life in all of its aspects. You will not be dissuaded by the fact that you can no more control its span than you could control your need to breathe. You say you picked the sperm and egg, that their union you carefully orchestrated. You believe all things can be measured, if you can only identify proper metrics for the task. You know precisely how tall you are, how much you have shrunken over the years, how much your waistline has grown. You can count your good deeds, have a rating scale that says your next life will be karmic payback hell. You are taken with measurements of all sorts, so much so that you often forget to fully live. You say that this loss doesn’t matter much, for living boldly, thoroughly, gives you far too much more to measure.
She said I should be thankful that I am not a rice farmer. She said that I should be thankful that I am not over seven feet tall, and not less than four feet eight inches, although she concedes that four feet nine would not be cause for celebration. She says I should be thankful I was not dropped on my head as a baby. I am thankful for all of these things, and for her, for she saves me countless hours remember things for which I probably should be thankful.