Maybe, Maybe, Maybe

So...maybe being an optimist is okay after all.

In fact, maybe being an optimist is actually braver. When I hope for the best, I take a pretty scary risk. Someone might actually disappoint me. I might actually get hurt or feel something unpleasant. But maybe that's just part of life. Besides, being a sucker for love and romance (oh, yes, I conceal it well, I'm about 90% mush under these thick scales), I have always believed in the adage that it's better to have loved than lost, than, well, you know the rest.

Yesterday I was ready to throw in the towel on optimism all together. Who needs it? It is much safer to always see the glass half-empty. It's easy to complain, to commiserate. But is it as fulfilling? Perhaps getting the stars when you wanted the moon isn't so bad. If you don't shoot for anything at all, you're left empty-handed. I'll take the stars, thank you.

Maybe optimism itself isn't the problem, I am. I'm too scared, too worried, too anxious, too (I hate to admit) insecure to believe someone will amaze me. Maybe by closing myself off, I don't give anyone a chance to even try.

Maybe it's not that I have to stop "wearing my wishbone where my backbone outta be." Maybe it's that I need to nurture my wishbone and my backbone at the same time. Who said they had to be mutually exclusive anyway?