I just read Ann Nichols’ take on Eat, Pray, Love. Like Ann, I have mixed feelings about the book. Gilbert does appear to suffer from the attractive, well-to-do woman’s burden – ennui – but there isn’t anything about being privileged that protects you from unpleasant feelings even if it seems like there should be, certainly not as a right, but as evidence of emotional upward mobility. Shouldn’t someone be happy? Shouldn’t everyone have a hope of getting there? I don’t begrudge Gilbert her journey or her resulting happiness, and my only problem with her book is the manifesto — eat, pray, love. As revelations, none of those words work for me.

I’ve never needed reminding to eat or to love. I happily consume things others revile, like slimy boiled okra and buttermilk straight from the carton; I love things that are distinctly unlovable, like my daughter’s creepy-pink, hairless rat who has one shrunken eye and one protruding eye and does nothing but run a squeaky wheel spraying urine as she runs. I love that rat.

I also have an uneasy relationship with prayer. When prayer appears to work, I wonder if I would have had the same outcome without praying, and when it doesn’t work, I feel cheated. If it’s true that God has a plan, then what’s the point of groveling? Of course I still pray, for the same reason I revere duct tape. I’m all about the easy fix.

So I started thinking about what my three words might be, words that would succinctly sum up some surprising life lessons, revelations at this turning point in my life – middle age. In the spirit of Gilbert's title, I came up with feet, say, shrug.

Feet — I could write an entire book about my feet. Each heel and toe has a long list of grievances (yes, yes, she got roast beef, and you got none), physical traumas and psychological issues related to finger envy, but to sum it up briefly: in my younger years, I abused my feet terribly. I frequently strapped them into perilous carnival rides, ignoring their throbbing squeals as we painfully teetered along. I have apologized with orthopedic inserts and cork footbeds, yet I remain unforgiven. Who knew feet had such long memories?

Say — When I am very old, inhaling and exhaling in a death rattle, I will remember all the times I didn’t say what I wanted to say. I ate and prayed and loved, but I didn’t say what needed to be said, at the time it needed to be said. My tongue deliberately lagged behind my brain, mistaking subjugation for prudence. There are, however, some good things about getting older. I mean, if you are no longer a girl, then trying to be a good girl is pointless. While I haven’t given my tongue absolute freedom, it’s liberating to imagine that one fine day, I will have my say.

Shrug — As a gesture and a philosophy "shrug" is best illustrated by an anecdote.

In the aftermath of a hurricane, word spreads fast about the first restaurant to get power, the first gas station, the first laundromat. Last hurricane, it was the laundromat owned by Kim, a diminutive Korean despot.

If your family has gone a week without air conditioning and hot water, it is a given that you smell like goat ass and that you have a carload of gamey clothing that needs to be either washed immediately or burned in sacrifice to the weather gods. Choosing the former, I took my turn at the laundromat, and watched as Miss Cotton Blossom Festival came in with her monogrammed canvas tote full of Lily Pulitzer, followed closely by Trouble (her shirt said so) dragging a bulging trash bag of tank tops and booty shorts.

It became clear that although Miss Cotton Blossom Festival might know which fork to use for the chilled asparagus, she was completely unfamiliar with laundromat etiquette. For example, if people are waiting for the machines, it’s unpardonable to let your clothing sit in the machine — even for a second — after the washing or drying is complete. Well, Blossom sat there, drawling into her cell phone for a full three minutes after her washing machine stopped spinning. She did it again with the second machine she had commandeered.

I looked over at Trouble to see if she was fashioning a shiv from a detergent scoop. Catching my gaze, she flattened her mouth into a comic line and gave a dramatic, drawn-out shrug.

Blossom witnessed the shrug, raised a haughty chin and blushed furiously just as Kim strode over to berate her with a wagging finger and rapid clucks of obvious disapproval. After that, Blossom watched her laundry like a dog watches for popsicle drips.

I’ve used that shrug in many times since — to inject a little humor into tense situations, to let others know I’m paying attention but I just don’t care all that much, to remind myself not to care all that much. In that manner, shrug might be the opposite of say: separate the important from the unimportant; know when to speak.

If Gilbert’s book encourages others to name their own three words, then the book has served a valuable purpose and is entirely deserving of its success. Maybe this needs to be an open call — what's your three-word manifesto?