I sat down next to a guy with a broken arm.

"Oh gosh," I said, and pointed.

He smiled, shrugged his shoulders and asked, "Mind if I put the armrest down?"

"Not at all."

I leaned back, buckled my seatbelt and slid open the airplane window, flooding our seats with bright light. I looked back to see if anyone would protest, but no one noticed. Grateful, I turned back to the window to enjoy my favorite part: take-off.

In the air, I found myself completely and utterly content. Content like being at the beach on a warm summer day content. Content like that first glass of wine that makes your blood all warm and tingly content. So content, in fact, I scared myself with the thought that I could die at this moment and be perfectly okay with that.

Not that I really would be. I mean, can you imagine? Honestly, I'm pretty sure I'd be scared shitless if the plane decided to go down.

But it wasn't just that. The idea of me being content actually scared me. Me. Content. What the...? There are so many reasons not to be content. Trust me, I know them by heart. So much so that often times I end up feeling just...exhausted. At moments like these, I find that I don't have the energy to hold them all up. Nor do I want to.

As the plane descended into Denver, the guy with the broken arm leaned over and said, "Enjoy Boulder, it's beautiful."

"Thanks," I said. "Welcome home."