Gratitude. Appreciation. Thanks. Religions prescribe it. The Beastie Boys wrote a ditty about it.

The concept is so prevalent in our language and in our world that I’m convinced it’s a universal principle. It also just makes sense.

I’m not feeling terribly grateful now, but I’m working on it.

See, every year, I get slammed with allergies, and there’s plenty to go around this year. I spent the weekend gardening and building a sandbox; yesterday went to cleaning our drive and roof of pollen and leaves—and it’s all taking its toll on me today.

I feel like Mother Nature—in her most sprite-like, diminutive manifestation—walked up to me, said, “Hey, D! Nice job on the yard!” then cracked my brow with a Muay Thai flying knee followed by an elbow to the sternum.

The yard and house? They look great. Me? Not so much. There was so much pollen that after I had raked and swept it into piles, I was scooping it into the yard bags by the handful. For someone so susceptible to allergies, this was madness. It’s the equivalent of an ant washing its face with Amdro® or maybe a mosquito lathering up with deet. Ugh.

I missed my class this morning (my first Muay Thai class, no less) and am struggling to get through some copywriting. But I have a job and there’ll be another class Friday. And through it all, I’m trying to be grateful, one Kleenex at a time.