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I learned to be compassionate by watching my mom. Ginger’s 5’1″ body houses a mammoth heart.

When I was growing up, she was sometimes (okay, frequently) uncomfortably kind to strangers and acquaintances.

I suspect she overcompensated for the lack of kindness she experienced. And I cast no stones; I’m the same way. It’s taken me most of my 40-years to recognize and temper it.

“Is this too Gingerly?” is something I ask my husband and best friend to gauge the awkwardness of an idea.

For instance, my aunt passed away recently. We weren’t close, but reconnected after she shared her cancer diagnosis last year. She liked pictures/videos of and FaceTime with my family so I tried to do that regularly. It helped that my daughter is a particularly entertaining 3.5yo who doesn’t really get the concept of dying and provided much needed comedy to tragedy.

SIDE STORY: We were recording a video for Marilyn when she entered the hospital for the last time. We were wishing her a good night when my baby’s brow suddenly furrowed. “You messed up my room. That wasn’t very nice.” She scolded.

In the background, I’m failing to stifle a smile. “Baby, we’re talking to Auntie Marilyn, not the cleaning lady.” Apparently, we had flipped from wishing Marilyn sweet dreams to airing grievances to the sweet woman who cleans our house. She takes the time to arrange the mosh pit of stuffed animals that blanket my child’s bed, clearly to her dismay.

My uncle is now a widower and my 24yo cousin‘s mom is gone. These aren’t two people I know well but am fighting the need to smother with acts of kindness. I want to make ridiculous amounts of food, send cards and emails and care package, shovel/mow/rake, invite them for dinner, clean their house, something — ANY-thing to take away the pain.

“Too Gingerly,” my husband says. “But, what if I …” I protest. “Too Gingerly,” he counters every time. And I begrudgingly listen. Because he’s right. There’s nothing I can do to take away the pain.

However, I’m thankful that extreme kindness is ingrained in me. I would rather err on the side of awkwardly compassionate anyway.

Lately, I’ve been unable to shake the desire to email an old boyfriend. Not for any other reason than to tell him, hey, thank you for being a great person.  RT3 was raised by Pastor Bob and Tootse.  Raised in Kentucky, their jobs brought them to this metropolis when RT3 was young. I remember the day I first met them.  I was 22 and they embraced me from the minute I walked through the door of their north suburban rambler.  He was clearly an apple of their limbs – and they are all some of the best people I’ve ever met.

I had a crush on him in college well before he ever noticed me. We dated for a little over a year after graduation and I so badly wanted to love him like he loved me.  I didn’t understand how I couldn’t be attracted this wonderful human being – or, in the least make myself be.

It took a few years, but we became friends after our relationship ended.  Great friends.  And then he met his now wife.  Even though I was second only to his sister as the most harmless person to their relationship, I still was a girl that RT3 used to date.  For a long time after we lost touch, I couldn’t understand. I couldn’t be happy for him when I felt such injustice that he had taken his friendship away when I didn’t do anything wrong. Eventually, I got over myself. I’d like to say it was because I saw how happy he was.  But more likely it was because time dulls all feelings.

It wasn’t until TB expressed his frustration with me hanging out with an old boyfriend did I have an inkling of the position RT3 had been in with his then-girlfriend about me those years ago.  It super sucked to send to him the email to tell him I couldn’t meet up for happy hour anymore because it made my husband too uncomfortable.

Today, I want to tell him that he’s one of the best men I’ve ever known. And that I’m so glad he was a big part of my life.  I want to tell him that I’m sad we can’t be better friends but he’ll always be among the blessings I count in my life. And last, I want to tell him I attribute to him, in part, that I picked a good one who treats me well.  After all, he was the first guy in the aftermath of my formative years who demonstrated how a guy is supposed to love a girl.

But, that’s kind of a weird email to send.  And probably a weird email to receive.  So I’ll just tell the internet instead.

A colleague lent to me her brother’s Fitbit.  For the first two weeks, it didn’t register the change from him to me. Every morning, upon it’s first movement of the day, it would greet me with Bonjour Ben.

This little jumpdrive shaped number tracks steps, miles, and stairs.

I walked over 16,000 steps on Saturday.  I only went for a walk in the evening to make sure I rolled over that 15,999.

I’m hooked.

I ran Sunday, in part mostly because I wanted to see if I could top 16,000 steps.  Sadly, Bonjour Ben is old and it’s display stops working without notice or obvious cause. Even though I’m sure I logged 6+ miles yesterday between my morning run and evening walk, I’ll have to wait until the new FitBit arrives and I can tackle that same route again.

Bonjour Ben was returned to its rightful owner and I bought the next generation of FitBit this morning with my Amazon Visa reward points. I’m a little nervous about this being a ‘shiny object’ so I was glad to use points to pay the $90.

Now I wonder what it would take to get to 20,000 steps…