Moose in the Kitchen

My parents considered naming me Sunshine (oh, the hippie years), but refrained for two reasons. One: I’d have to write Sunshine on all my checks and resumes, and do people take Sunshines seriously? I’m glad I never had to find out the hard way. Two: What if they called me “Sunny” and I, um, wasn’t? The teen years might have been particularly grim, with a possible legal name change to Unreasonable P. Morbid.

But I’m generally a pretty happy person – one might even call me sunny. Sure, I’ll catch myself thinking, “Oh, I can’t be happy now – I don’t know where my paycheck’s coming from in December, I’m the only single person I know in this city, I haven’t achieved anything impressive, my storage closet’s not organized.” As I grow older, I’m getting much better at calling BULLSHIT on this nonsense.

The flip side is, as good as I am at being content in crappy circumstances, I’m equally good at being miserable in perfect ones. I’ve been known to feel utterly dejected and wretched while sitting on the back of a boat in a Caribbean harbor on one of the most beautiful starry nights a tourist could ask for. At this specific point in time I had a partner, an interesting job, plenty of money, and – oh yes – was spending two and a half weeks sailing around lush tropical islands eating barbequed shrimp, drinking rum and gingers, and watching dolphins leap around the prow of the boat. From the outside, it appears to be everything any sane person needs to be ecstatic. But I wasn’t.

I suppose you could look at it as a prime example of Privileged Girl Being Profoundly Ungrateful, but I think it’s more accurate to say that you can be unhappy in the best of circumstances and happy in the worst. Which leads me to believe your current circumstances don’t prescribe your happiness or lack thereof.

(For the record, it was amazing trip. It just didn’t manage to make me into a different person. Damn.)

Being miserable on a Caribbean beach may just be my own macabre talent, but it always reminds me that what I – and our culture in general – tend to recognize as harbingers of great joy don’t make one bit of difference to your actual happy quotient. Nice house, good-looking mate, successful career, sweet vacations – I’ve had all these things (OK, the house wasn’t mine, but I lived in the damn thing, so for the purposes of this post, it counts) and not had those things and I’ve since realized they don’t have the substantive effect one hopes they would. Sure, I’d rather be unhappy with these things than unhappy without, but there’s just no good substitute for actual contentment.

Well, fine then. GO AHEAD AND MAKE IT SO MY CREDIT CARD DOESN’T FULFILL ITS GLEAMING PROMISE.

For me, right at this moment, there are any number of things I can use for short-term happiness: a mocha, a new paperback novel, a hike in Pacifica, pulling out the dusty yoga DVD, coercing friends to brunch. Long-term reliable happiness is a little trickier. Or maybe it’s not. In the past six months, whenever I feel the unhappy creep in, I try to pull myself out of my head – maybe by taking those deep breaths people are always talking about (oxygen is important! who knew?) or just looking around and noticing where I am, right at that moment. Often, where I am is pretty good.

Essentially, there are two ways I can look at my life right now:

Way Number One

I’m alone.

I live in a hallway that’s prone to mold.

I haven’t had a vacation or real mental break in a year and a half.

My career is faltering or nonexistent, depending on your definition.

I don’t have any savings.

Way Number Two

I have a nice little place in my favorite city.

I’m young, healthy, and have always been able to earn what I need.

I’ve had the opportunity to visit some of the most beautiful places on earth and, statistically speaking, will get to go somewhere soon.

I have loving friends and family who are always there when I need them.

I’m figuring out how to do more of what I love, whether it makes me money or not.

~

I occasionally have moments – sometimes whole hours – where all I see is Way Number One. But far more often, I’m feeling Way Number Two. And that makes me happy.

~~~

Footnotes (Minus the Convenient Numbers):

Inspired by Susan and Chris because their posts made me think and isn’t it nice when that happens?

My happiness assessment is obviously culled from my own experience – experience which, thankfully, does not include homelessness or hunger or real tragedy. I don’t know what happiness requires in those circumstances, but I do know what it requires in mine – which I suspect is the best any of us can do.

Related posts:

1. Enjoy Every Sandwich