I watched a talk show the other evening because I was tired of politics on the news, but I didn’t want to eat supper alone. I hadn’t seen Oprah or Rosie for several years, so I thought I’d check out their shows. My viewing choice probably explains the two cookies and a cinnamon roll I ate even though tomorrow is my weigh-in day!

As I listened to the chatter, I felt this thing rising up inside me. At first I thought it was the cinnamon roll. But, no, it was something more sinister than that. It was jealousy. I looked at those women and their various guests and I was jealous. Not of their clothes or their hair or the ungodly amount of dollars they were earning by the minute. I was jealous of their platform.

I wondered how many millions of other people were wrapped in a blanket on the couch eating too many sweets while taking part in this virtual conversation to nowhere. And I wondered why I was the one on the sofa instead of the stage.

At one time, my writing career seemed to be taking me that way. I actually turned down an offer to appear on a national television talk show back in the ’90’s. I’m still glad about that. It was the mercy of God that held me back. Because I didn’t have anything to say. Nothing helpful or real or tested. I’d have done much more damage than good.

I’m a little more seasoned now. And my brief flare of jealousy made me wonder: If I had a platform today, what would I use it to say?

Maybe I better figure that out.

And then maybe I should just keep standing on the little two-by-four of my life and start saying it.