“Hope springs eternal.” —Alexander Pope
If you know me (or have read any of my past posts), you know that I am an optimist. Always. To an extent even I sometimes recognize as being ridiculous. When the hostess at a restaurant says the wait to be seated is 30 minutes, I’ll assure my kids that it won’t really take that long to get in. If we’re in line for a popular ride at Disney World (we were there on vacation last month) and the wait is estimated to be 90 minutes and I can see the mass of people in line in front of us, I will still be sure the wait will be closer to an hour.
There have been extreme examples of my optimism throughout my life. I’ll never forget standing in my mother’s hospital room as the doctors took her off life support. She was dying from a brain tumor, on her literal death bed, and yet, watching her breathe on her own, I actually thought she might not die. I honestly believed she might make it through the night, wake up from her coma in the morning, and get better. As it turned out, there was no miracle, and my mother passed in the early hours of the morning. But the hope I had allowed me to sleep a few hours that night, and I’m sure that’s what she would have wanted.
I’ve often wondered why I’m so optimistic, especially in those times when the logical part of my brain tells me I shouldn’t be. After all, I went to college for engineering and worked as a mechanical engineer for a few years before going to law school. I’ve been a lawyer in my day job for the past twenty years, which means I analyze problems and come up with solutions for a living. I’m data-driven, detail-oriented, and logical. And yet, in my personal life, no matter what facts are staring me in the face, I seem to always believe that things will turn out for the best. I prefer to cling to the absurd notion that the outcome I want will be the one that comes to pass, regardless of the facts.
At times I’ve tried to be less optimistic, reminding myself of the reality of the situation and that things would most likely not turn out well. Despite my efforts, however, hope bubbles up to the surface. I still believe things will work out, reality be damned. And even as I realize the sheer lunacy of my hopeful disposition, I hold onto it. I can’t seem to turn it off.
Maybe there is no helping it. Maybe that’s just how I’m wired. But maybe the world needs ridiculous, perpetually optimistic people to counteract the unreasonably, continually pessimistic people out there. Because they exist, too. And in the end, if I’m going to be absurd, I’d rather be absurdly optimistic than absurdly pessimistic, because when everything goes to crap, it’s no consolation that you thought it was all going to go to crap. It’s still crap, and it still stinks.
So, here I am, hoping against hope, wishing for the best. When I drive my daughter into New York City to get her moved into her college dorm at the end of the month, you bet I’m going to be sure I’ll find the perfect parking spot. And I’m going to count on landing a big client after a series of disappointments at work, and I’m going to go to bed tonight certain that when I wake up the ache in my elbow will be gone (even though I’ve had it for months). Because that’s what I do.
I hope.
- Kathryn Amurra