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I love positive people.  They draw me with their yellow magnetism.  I love that they can be found everywhere.  You’ll see them chatting happily on school yard courtyards.  You’ll see them smiling in grocery stores.  On Facebook, they’re spouting about their happiness everywhere.  They float about most merrily in hot air balloons of their own devising.

Two times in my life, I’ve met with the derision of someone “other” who has expressed distain for my penchant for yellow floating.  Both times, these individuals commented on my laughing.  One person asked me, is that your real laugh or are you just working that?  The other told me with scorn, not everything in the world is funny, you know.  As I type out these comments that have seared their way – verbatim – into my memory, I still feel a bit stunned that someone felt the need to rain on my parade like that.  I know the old adage it’s those who hurt the most who hurt the most is heart-rendingly accurate and reflecting on these sorts of smudgy memories no longer strikes unhappiness, just a sort of bewildered sadness for these people and the fact that they’re still trapped inside their own skin.

I love happy people.  I’m too old now to spend any real amount of time with people who derive a nasty thrill out of the act of maliciously dissecting the characters of others.  I’m too old and I don’t have enough time.  I wonder, now, if I ever had enough time.  The women flanking me through life now are beautiful ones.  They’re so whole, they spill out with it.   Their joy is palpable and one of them even recently said to me, I’ve decided I’m not complaining about the rain anymore.  It doesn’t help and I want to be positive.  I felt a swell of love for her as she said it.  I want to be more like that beautiful girl, impervious to rain and its dampening.  She creates her own sunshine wherever she goes and I purposed – then and there – to do the same.  I’m not going to obsessively check the weather anymore because as she implied, the rain isn’t the point, is it?

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