The grass on the other side is greener. Sometimes, yes. And no, the greener grass isn’t always fake. But just because their grass is greener, doesn’t mean I need to claim it, or downplay my own.

The grass beneath my feet is asparagus green, sometimes an olive drab. Lovely Mexican clover grows through it, in little blankets of summer snow. There are patches of dirt and bare spaces for little purple flowers to grow. 

Bees buzz and ants march about, a miniature humming of life. If the grass is good enough for them, it’s good enough for me. I don’t want perfect bluegrass, the kind that yearns for bare feet, missing that summerglow. I love to look at greener grass, yes. 

But the grass beneath my feet suits me just fine.