It's all about how it's not all about me

Over the past week or so four pieces of happy news about people I adore have reached me, either directly or through the grapevine, and although I haven't been explicitly authorized to disclose any of it here I will say that these four pieces of happy news all fall under the broad category of love ... and one of its byproducts. So far my reaction has been pure, genuine, giddy, excited happiness with a smattering of goosebumps and tears (the good kind).

I was thinking this morning that there was a time in my life, not so long ago, when a rash of such good news might have made me feel bad. Oh, sure, I would have felt happy for them. But I also would have felt bad for me. In my late thirties, single, no children, no prospects on the horizon, yada, yada, yada. But--and I swear to God I'm not just saying this--I didn't feel that way. And I still don't. Not even a tiny little bit.

Is it possible? Have I actually reached a stage in my life where I am able to just be happy for someone else instead of automatically thinking of how it relates to me? Well, no, probably not. I mean, I am at this very moment writing a blog entry about how well I reacted to someone else's good news and how I didn't make it all about me. And, well, that kind of is making it all about me, isn't it?

But c'mon. I held out for, like, almost a whole week.
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