Through no fault of my own, my brain is hardwired for optimism. I’ve been this way as long as I can remember. I tend to believe that things in my life will generally play out favorably, and that bad situations will soon be resolved. My mom was like that, and my grandma, too. I married an optimistic gal, and she gave me optimistic kids.
More often than not life proves my outlook correct. I can only speak anecdotally, looking exclusively through the lens of my own experience, but so far there have been a lot more joys than sorrows, and it hasn’t even been close. For sure, there are dark tears massing on the horizon, but even more laughs.
Now, for some reason I’ve never understood, not everyone appreciates this disposition. It seems to provoke a reaction in some people–even make them angry. Often, they seek to disabuse me of my foolishness. “You can’t go through life believing everything is going to turn out all right,” they tell me, “Because life isn’t like that. It doesn’t always turn out the way you’d like.” And then they ask, “What happen then? What happens when all your well-laid plans unravel like a cheap rug; when the thing you wanted is denied you, and at last you’re brought low?”
Well, then I’m disappointed.