Pondering, talking, and debating the good and simple life has been the topic de jour between my husband and me. It’s not just because of the series going on at this site. We go round and round, like we have nothing better to do than chase our tails.

The problem began with me when I was in high school. I wanted to be Amish. Now, this is a topic psychologists could have a hayday with if I believed enough in their work to let them within two feet of me. (Whenever I think I might need some back-therapy, I tune in for a few minutes to Dr. Laura and am quickly reminded that I’m OK—and you’re OK—and so I return to regular life, grateful for my lesser sin of harboring Amish fetishes.) Around the age of 16, I began stockpiling Amish dress patterns, catalogs, and books about the simple life. I even sewed up a few of those dresses. In calico prints, of course. I didn’t want to look too weird, you know.

I don’t make this stuff up.

The problem with my love affair of the Amish is that it was all romance and no grit. Just like a 20-year-old bride who gets married with nothing but stars in her eyes. When the babies begin arriving, the money gets low, and the in-laws start a peckin’, well, that’s when grits show up on the breakfast menu. I remember an older mother telling me, “Marriage is NOT romantic,” and it shattered, crushed, and sent a 16-year-old idealist into a tailspin. Where was I to go from here?

I think I watched Anne of Avonlea too many times.

For years I mistakenly romanticized the simple life, and now that I’m trying to live it, I have a few hang-ups to overcome. I thought if I pursued simplicity, then I’d be picking daffodils in rolling fields every afternoon.

But I harbor markings of this age, and even better, I live in America: home of the “obey your thirst” mantra. I’ve bought into a microwave view of life, and I’ve even been guilty of pushing a “power minute” prayer button a time or two. I’m an economist to a fault—why bake your own whole-wheat bread when you can buy white-processed on sale with a coupon? So, for the sake of ease, I exchange what is good.

I want the “good life.” I do. And while I don’t enjoy eating grits, I’ll do it if I can pick daffodils afterward.