It’s Friday night, about midnight. I’m hunched over my keyboard, wearing clothes with space for me and a sumo wrestler in them. (Luckily, no sumo wrestlers are at hand.) My roommates have both fallen asleep while watching a Disney movie in the living room.

I’m having a great evening, too. Who needs a life?

It’s been a good day. Our toilet works, I didn’t get rained on, and I bought a sweater that makes me look like a bran muffin (I like bran muffins). For once, no one is honking outside my window. We have bread and ice cream and peach schnapps. My friend is home from the hospital. The weekend has two days to go.

I’m reminded of a song by Melissa Ferrick: “Everything I need is right here in my hands, right here in my hands, right here in my hands.”

I rarely think about how lucky I am. I get so caught up in “If only I had a beautiful body / lots of money / athletic ability / free time / social skills / true love / guts / rhythm” that I forget to be happy.

My columns tend to be snarky, pessimistic, a little mean; a friend of mine described them as “representing the cynical underground.” (The Cynical Underground would be a good name for a band.)

But I get to go to college. I have enough — more than enough — to eat and a place to sleep that’s not only warm and safe, but covered with pretty sheets and in easy reach of a bookcase. I have two dear friends within 15 feet of me. My health is good. God loves me. My brain does what I ask of it. The sun comes up every single day.

What, exactly, have I got to complain about? I can’t think of anything.

Earlier this evening, I was grouchy because I wanted to go out and knew I couldn’t let myself. I’d still rather be at a party than writing this; sometimes there’s nothing better than sinking into alcohol and letting all the petty worries and self-consciousness ooze into a hazy corner of your mind.

But there’s a lot to be said for quiet — for a mostly dark house, soft friendly clothes that don’t dig into my waist, no one shrieking or playing elaborate mating games, no deafening sex-themed music. And there’s a lot more to be said for contentment — for looking at what I’ve got, my smooth and unassuming life with its various sizes of blessing, and recognizing that it’s enough.

Parties, or the lack thereof, aren’t the point. I’m just reminding myself, in this overly public way, that it doesn’t matter whether my social life is less hopping than the next person’s, whether my pants don’t fit as hotly as theirs, whether they appear to spontaneously generate money from their pores. How I compare to the next person, whoever he or she is, has no bearing on anything. Not when there’s this much to be happy about.

This is not to say that I would reject other good things if they came along. Of course not. I haven’t given up on someday being successful and gorgeous and rich and confident and skilled at everything. I like to think that someday I’ll find true love, assuming it exists.

But what I have is enough.

I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m gloating. I know I’m lucky. Lots of people in our society have families where every day is Armageddon, or health that’s failing; lots of people lunge out toward love, only to find themselves with an armful of barbed wire. Lots of people are really broke — “What will I feed my children?,” not “Damn it, I only have enough for one beer.”

I know I’m lucky, and I think a lot of you probably are too. I expect I’ll forget all this soon — spend the rest of the weekend grumbling about homework, scowl at myself in the mirror, wish I lived alone as I clear shoes and popcorn off the couch. My next column will consist of me bitching about some little thing for 700 words.

But for right now, I remember that I’m happy. Everything I need is right here in my hands. I’ll keep remembering as I glide noiselessly into the kitchen for a dish of ice cream and as I decide not to wake my roommates and send them to bed.