Drinking a pint of London Pride while munching Twiglets and reading about Colin Firth having a critical and box office catastrophe.

The entire family being healthy, being on the set of Barry, and a rainbow trout on my line.

Being together with the ones I love on a Wednesday afternoon, washing the dishes, taking the garbage to the bin under a gray sky, hearing the distant sounds of children from upstairs, turning around and suddenly looking into the eyes of the one I love. It is the feeling of being alive I’m talking about. And of being in love.

Late one Sunday afternoon, my three-year-old granddaughter, out of the blue, took my hand and said she wanted to whisper something to me. Could we go for a ride around the block before we all sat down for dinner? Just the two of us? Holding hands as we walked to and from the car in the driveway: Bliss.

Balloons. I have a big phobia of balloons. Big.

In the hospital giving birth to my second daughter with my first daughter right there in the room as it was happening. I don’t remember any pain. I just remember feeling more alive and full of fierce mama bear love than at any other point in my life.

If hoarding and procrastination were Olympic sports, I’d have at least 70 gold medals.

In my bed at home at a ripe old age with the knowledge that my children, and grandchildren if I have any, are thriving, happy, and provided for.

Meghan Markle. I don’t know how she continues to walk through this world with the grace, strength, and purpose that she does given the unbearable amount of vitriol and hate she has been subjected to, but she does. I wish she didn’t have to.