I'm fine, thank you.

When asked, "How are you?" I am the sort of person that is likely to give an honest answer, and often as not that answer will be somewhat less unflaggingly optimistic (or formality-bound, depending on your perspective) than the culturally mandatory "I'm fine, thank you."

I've tried to explain the weight of this cultural norm to a online friend who is learning English. He consistently answers "I'm okay" when I inquire about his wellbeing via instant messenger. His answer always prompts a "Why just okay?" from me, to which he then replies, "Nothing is wrong; that's just what I say."

That little exchange has become our own ritual. I suppose what I have unsuccessfully tried to convey to him is that until you really know how something will be understood culturally, in the context of the language and of the listener, the default reply is probably the best one. Still, I have this subtle expectation of honesty and accuracy where most of our culture seems to have none, and I have little respect for the prescribed reply once I have any respect for my conversation partner.

The fact is, I can nearly always find something to complain about, repeatedly and at length. I don't think this is a virtue -- it's more of a failing. But it also makes me me somehow. Still, even as curmudgeonly (realistic, pessimistic, depressive, melancholy... ?) as I am, there are moments in life when even I can't help but realize that I am, indeed, fine. One of those moments came last night.

It was about 8:00. Dinner had been consumed, work had been set aside for a few hours. I had soft yarn and slightly chilly knitting needles in my hands and comfy slippers on my feet. The lights were off, except for the hundreds of tiny white bulbs bedecking the newly-acquired Christmas tree and garlands. There was a warm orange glow and gentle crackling in the fireplace that took the bite out of the chill of the room. My husband, healthy except for the obligatory pre-concert sore throat, sat contentedly beside me on the couch, dividing his attention between the small, furry body snoring on his lap and the hockey game on the screen. My own lap was warmed by a larger purring cat who occasionally roused himself from his catnip dreams to take a swipe at my yarn.

I stilled my mind's constant scampering long enough to be in that moment, and I saw that the moment was beautiful. I stopped knitting, looked at Daniel, until he felt my gaze and turned to look back at me, and I told him that I loved being there with him in that moment.

And I did love it, because there, in that moment, it didn't matter what the bank account balance said, what we'd eat for dinner tomorrow, who would attend our concerts this weekend, what I would wear to a wedding next month, whether I would meet my deadline on Monday, what this or that person thought of me, what I said yesterday that I shouldn't have. Not my sins of omission and commission. Not our plans for life in 10 years. Not all of the things I should have done and didn't and did do and shouldn't have. None of it mattered.

In that moment was all of the contentment I long for when I am busy fretting about everything past and everything future.

I wonder how often I let these moments slip by without the slightest notice. Probably depressingly often. Still, I captured this one, and I will treasure it in my heart.

How am I?

I'm fine, thank you.

How are you?