“Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.”

“Hi. How are things with you?”

The question is commonplace. For me, it is a loaded inquiry, causing hesitation before I answer.

In the past, I’d respond honestly by saying, “Fine.” Life, for the most part, was neither terrible nor tremendous. Recently, my situation has improved. And I am scared to express my stoke.

“Things with me are freaking fantastic!” is what I want to say. I survived a thirty-foot fall. I live with my girlfriend, my best friend, who is beautiful inside and out. For the first time since I lifeguarded on the beach during college, I work a job I enjoy, owning a ghostwriting firm with an aspirational, inspirational buddy. I am the luckiest dude on Earth!

But I fear I must hold back from expressing sincere enthusiasm. I feel I don’t deserve this moment; it’s too good to be true; and if I acknowledge the awesomeness aloud, the proverbial other shoe will drop, ending this chapter prematurely. So, whether it’s shame, lack of self-esteem, both, or something else, I revert to the safe response, even though it is a lie I tell the questioner and myself.

“Things are fine, same ol’. How are you?”