I stagger out of the movie theater with the newfound certainty that my life is pointless.

Why write blogs about my kids’ aggravating but endearing traits when African children are being snatched from their mothers’ arms and forced to commit unimaginable atrocities just to stay alive?

It seems indecent to obsess about SAT scores or worry about underage drinking in light of such horrors.

Yet, I and everyone else I know persist in the delusion of how stressful our pampered lives are.
We have no idea what goes on in the rest of the world.

Nor do we want to.

I wish I could channel my shock and grief into the righteous indignation of action. Petitions, rallies, boycotts, bake sales -- anything to stave off paralysis and guilt.

In my tireless fight for justice, I could inspire my daughters to trade People magazine for a life dedicated to helping real people.

I could instill in them fervor to save the world rather than regret being born into it.

Instead, I just want to retreat.

I want the bubble to descend over the soft green hills of Marin, over our soft neuroses about trivial injuries, over the easy lives of my precious girls.

Maybe then I’ll feel safe from the wolf at the door.

By Lorrie Goldin

Labels: entitlement, helping others, Lorrie Goldin

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