The other day, I met someone online who I suspect might make a good friend.
Of course, it’s too early to tell for certain. We’re at that stage where it’s still readily possible to discover she has horrifying, soul-crushing secrets — such as she tortures animals, locks her mother in the attic, beats her kids, or worse, harbors a fondness for the music of Britney Spears.
But so far I’ve found her to be kind, intelligent, charming, and respectful — so if all goes well, I hope to befriend her. And I’m finding that pretty common these days. I have met many good people online, and I should by all rights be getting used to it.
Still, a part of me cannot believe my good luck to have met so many remarkable people. A part of me protests that I must be delusional to think I’ve found so many kind, decent, intelligent, etc people in the world. Protests that I would be lucky enough to have found just one such person, let alone all the people I have found.
It’s much more than nice, at 51, to still have days when I feel impossibly lucky. I’m finding as I get older that most of the time I feel so lucky it has something to do with the people I know — rather than, say, with my material circumstances, or the overall nature of this world.
I suppose it could easily be different. Indeed, there are so many problems in the world that perhaps I ought not count myself (or anyone else alive these days) as too lucky for words. Besides which, the world has always been an extraordinarily cruel place — if you wish to make a point of the perfectly obvious. But apparently, my heart ignores that dismal reality. And for that I’m grateful.