I have a measuring tape in a kitchen drawer that has never once told me anything encouraging. It says the curtains are too short and the sofa won’t fit. Lately, I’ve been using much the same equipment on myself, without the courtesy of numbers.

I compare how far I can walk, how long I can stay out, and how much I get done before I need to sit down. The woman I used to be wins every contest. Naturally she does. I’ve appointed her judge, jury, and official keeper of the stopwatch. Meanwhile, the woman living here now can’t get a fair hearing, although she’s doing the work.

My Former Self Has an Excellent Publicist

According to my memory, I once ran a household, met every obligation, remembered everyone’s birthday, and washed the kitchen floor. This woman was apparently a cross between a domestic goddess and a well-organized border collie.

I have misplaced the records of the burnt dinners, the laundry left in the dryer, and the evenings I was unpleasant. History is written by the survivors, and apparently mine employs a very selective editor.

Still, I use that imaginary champion as the standard. Three pages of reading look shabby next to three chapters. Coffee with one friend seems inadequate beside the dinner parties I used to manage. Never mind that I enjoy those three pages, and I can hear my friend without worrying about burning potatoes.

The numbers have changed. That doesn’t settle the question of whether the experience is worth having.

A Peacock Takes His Complaint Upstairs

Aesop’s The Peacock and Juno features a bird with an extravagant wardrobe. His tail resembles a jewelry-store explosion. Yet instead of admiring his spectacular feathers, he frets because the nightingale can sing and he cannot.

So he complains to Juno, queen of the gods, about this oversight. Juno explains that birds have different gifts: the eagle has strength, the nightingale has its song, and the peacock has beauty. No one gets the complete catalog.

Imagine arriving before a goddess dressed for the coronation of three separate monarchs and demanding a recording contract.

I would find the peacock ridiculous if I weren’t acquainted with his accounting methods. He measures himself against another bird. I measure myself against an earlier edition of me. Neither of us allows much room for what is actually in front of us.

An Unfair Scale Makes Everything Look Small

Psychologists describe negativity bias: bad experiences often attract more attention than good ones. It makes sense that our ancestors noticed threats. The trouble begins when that alarm becomes Tuesday’s accountant.

Pain announces itself. Fatigue cancels an outing. A limitation demands a new arrangement. But a pleasant call, a good paragraph in a book, or ten minutes spent making something rarely comes with trumpets. By evening, losses have made speeches while pleasures sit quietly in the back row.

Research on paying attention to positive experiences and personal strengths suggests it can modestly improve well-being. It doesn’t cure illness or erase loss. If someone responds to disappointment by telling me to count my blessings, I reserve the right to look for the exit, preferably near the refreshments.

But I would like an accurate picture. And accuracy requires counting more than the things that hurt.

What Doesn’t Fit on the Old Scorecard

Perhaps you can no longer maintain a large garden, but you enjoy three pots of herbs. Perhaps you don’t entertain a crowd anymore, but you’re the friend who knows how to listen. Perhaps you’re learning to draw, to play an instrument, or to speak a few words of another language, badly and with enthusiasm.

Why do we dismiss these things? We wouldn’t tell a friend that her kindness doesn’t count because she can’t climb stairs as quickly as she once did. Yet we apply equally peculiar rules to ourselves.

I’ve also become suspicious of the idea that pleasure must be productive. A book doesn’t have to improve my vocabulary. A hobby needn’t become a small business. A quiet afternoon doesn’t have to earn its keep by producing folded laundry. Somewhere, leisure started submitting quarterly performance reports.

I propose we stop.

Put Down the Old Measuring Tape

When I catch myself saying, “I used to do so much more,” I’m trying to follow it with a less prosecutorial question: “What would make today worth enjoying?” Sometimes the answer is a short visit instead of a long one. Sometimes it’s reading until I’m ready to stop, without counting pages like a school examiner.

It also helps to notice what survived the changes. Humor. Curiosity. A friendship. Good judgment, acquired at considerable expense. The ability to recognize nonsense before it has finished introducing itself. These things count even if no fitness tracker can measure them.

And on the days when rest is all I can manage, I’m not required to manufacture a charming lesson from it. A difficult day needn’t become the verdict on my life.

Today’s Woman Deserves Her Own Ruler

I miss things. Some losses still make me angry, and I don’t intend to wrap them in pretty paper and call them gifts. But I won’t let the woman I used to be monopolize the conversation about who I am.

She had her strengths. This woman has hers. She may move more slowly, but she’s learned which invitations to decline, which people are worth her time, and how much enjoyment can fit inside an ordinary afternoon.

Juno didn’t promise the peacock a singing voice. She pointed out that he was so busy inspecting the missing equipment that he’d failed to notice his feathers.

I think I’ll put away the measuring tape. It was never very good at measuring a life anyway. It can go back to delivering bad news about curtains.

🦚 A Question for the Road…I’d love to know: What part of your life still brings you pleasure, even if it looks different now?

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