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It once occurred to a certain king, that if he always knew the right time to begin everything; if he knew who were the right people to listen to, and whom to avoid; and, above all, if he always knew what was the most important thing to do, he would never fail in anything he might undertake.
—from the Three Questions, by Leo Tolstoy
I’m aching for happiness. Or at least more consistent, maybe call it, joy. A sense of purpose wouldn’t be bad. Unbearable lightness would be nice, if I could find some. Although I’m not unhappy exactly. It’s just, you know, Saturday morning and I should feel something far more than I actually do. I crave more than knowing life is grand, I want to feel the majesty of it all.
It’s more like I’m not happy … enough. I want more, more of the time. Explosive laughter. Or mindless ease hanging with friends in the sun with a beer throwing a Frisbee. That crystal moment with me and a few friends out at night, or me and a girlfriend on a secluded beach walking in the sun, or sometimes me, having nailed the cover art for a book no one may ever see but I’ve got it exactly right. That happy that I’ve tasted, I want it back.
It’s more like I’m not happy … enough. I want more, more of the time. Explosive laughter. Or mindless ease hanging with friends in the sun with a beer throwing a Frisbee.
I’m pretty sure what keeps me from it. In no particular order, it’s my need to relax more, to have a new girlfriend, to settle down and have children, and to get a better job. To suck it up and stop worrying about the small stuff—that cliché too, that’s me. And my car is a hassle. I know that shouldn’t bother me but it does, I’ll need to figure out how to get a new one soon. And global warming. That’s a stress. If I ever have kids, what will they do? Even with all that, though, it seems like I know better.
It’s a spectacular Saturday in Oakland. I should be able to make myself happy. I have nothing to do but something that makes me happy. Except I’m not all that happy, at least partly because, well, I haven’t a clue what to do with myself. Isn’t there something urgent I should be doing to seize the day? Someone I should be doing it for, instead of all this focus on me? Some life-changing, soul-growing something instead of basking in the sun doing absolutely nothing.
I’m in my pajamas late morning and it makes me feel disjointed and slow and annoyed that I’m incapable of being happy with nothing to do at all but sit on the stoop. Go get a coffee, go for a run, go for a hike, go back to bed. I should feel better, I know it. So much I could do on this irresponsible day. Only a few weeks ago being right here made me happy, it felt, like, exactly right. Today it’s kind of peaceful here on the stair, but not nearly upbeat and happy.
But seeing the potential doesn’t budge that mood. The one where I’m happy but I’m not. The one where I’m paralyzed by all the opportunity and nothing actually excites. Which is either my fault for thinking this way, or a mood I’m in, if only I could tell the difference.
In reality, if someone dropped by right now, and asked, are you happy, I’d probably say yes. I am mostly, and why bother anyone with a complaint? Still, it’s not like I felt last week, or was it the week before? Whenever, clearly I’m capable of much more expansive, unrestrained happiness. With nothing exactly wrong in my life, logically, I must be happier than I feel.
I want to be one of them, those people, the ones who exude light and are upbeat. Go change the world, smile and laugh while doing it, life’s not worth taking seriously. Now I’m showing empathetic concern for someone I’ve never met, now I’m making a joke that cracks up the room, it’s all good. Here, on my own, I should break out in laughter at the absurdity of it all. That’s how I should exist.
Not happening for me today, this week, or this year. If you asked anyone, they’d probably tell you—sure, he’s happy. Kind of serious and prone to worrying, but apparently happy. Except they’re missing something vital, deep inside it’s more … well, they’re right, actually. Layers and layers of serious, prone to worrying, happiness.
Spoiled, yuppie dilemma. I’m off from work today, but I’m head of a three-person art department at a not quite entirely unsuccessful publisher. Health is good. Plenty of friends and perfectly reasonable parents and a not terrible relationship with my older brother too. No conceivable risk of flood or famine. Woe is me, nothing to do but relax.
So that’s when I decide: Seek out the answer to happiness. The root of my own personal joy, and a purpose in life. Today. One day only, step right up.
• • •
I figure, as I often do, start with Gregory. In small part because he’s studying psychology. In large part because since high school, far before we talked each other into moving West for grad school, we’ve been prone to late night through early morning contemplation of anything from the trivial-and-factual everyday stuff through the grand-but-theoretical of life. What I am going to do, I’m failing algebra, and by the way, I’m not sure I believe in this God thing so much. Wherever the conversation scurried, we followed. Nodded, cracked jokes, built on the discussion. Not so much figured things out as discussed them into submission. The ideas themselves mostly collapsed right before we did, exhausted and wrung out.
I walk into his apartment without knocking, and jump right in. What should I be doing with myself, G? Right now, today, what should I do?
Well, it’s nine in the morning, I can’t buy you a drink until four. So that’s out. How about a bagel?
Gregory is sprawled on his sagging living room couch, studying. Well, there’s loud music on and sports highlights and a few open notebooks, so maybe studying. Year five or seven or something of a very intense graduate degree in some aspect of neuropsychology I didn’t actually know existed. He’ll once again happily put aside work for the day to hang out and chat. How many Ph.D. student