Two years ago, a friend of mine asked me a question that you'd think I'd be able to answer quite easily. It had nothing to do with the meaning of life or the application of the theory of relativity in the real world. It was a very simple succinct question, "Are you happy?"
Easy right - yes or no.
I am still pondering the answer to the question today. I think I answered something like, "Uh, I don't know. I guess I'm okay."
She shot me a look like the police must give a suicidal person about to take a great leap off the Golden Gate Bridge. A look that said she should either slip some antidepressants in my cup of Starbucks or suggest I download a psychotherapy app on my I-Phone. Instead, she paused for a moment and asked, "What do you mean you're just okay?"
All I could do was respond, "I'm okay, you know, okay. Not happy, not sad, just okay."
It was totally noncommittal but totally honest. Maybe it is an Asian unemotional thing but I really feel most comfortable when I am living in a state of total okay-ness. I has nothing to do with an innate need to dull any feelings but more about enjoying living as flotsam on a sea of stillness. I have no desire to ride on the crest on a big wave or exploring the depths of underwater darkness in search of some bizarre glow in the dark mutant octopi.
Why is it such a bad thing to embrace being okay?
I for one don't trust people who are happy happy joy joy all the time. I assume they are either in total denial about what is going on in their lives or have a variety of physical ailments that can only be treated by mass quantities of medicinal marijuana. Really, think about the people you know who are perpetually happy? There is something kind of unsettling about their creepy toothy smiles. Kind of John Wayne Gacy-ish. Scary scary clown. The worst is when they feel compelled to bring you over to the sunshiny marshmallowdom in which they live. I'm sorry but no matter how many jars of jellybeans or sunflowers you place on my desk, I will still prefer to share my space with gloomy Grumpy Bear with the raincloud on his tummy instead of that idiot Tenderheart Bear with the sparkly rainbow tummy.
Perhaps I need to create my own Care Bear, apathetic bear. On his tummy is the photo of someone who pretty much doesn't give a fluffy furry fart about much of anything. Of course, he would be grey and have a bottle of wine by his side.
I don't think of myself as a depressing person though. I do accept that I am very pessimistic and take great joy in seeing the pure rottenness in everyone. I know it is totally demented to take great pleasure in pointing out to myself how other people really suck but it is such a deliciously evil human experience - like watching American Idol only to see Randy get fat again or waiting for Steven Tyler to b-yotch slap J-Lo. Who cares about the singers, let me watch the dysfunction unfold in the inevitable clash of the titan egos.
While there may at times be a black cloud of doom hanging over my head, I don't feel that is a bad thing. I get lots of shade so I preserve my sickly whitish-yellow jaundiced skin tone and it lessens the occasional hot flash. When something terrible happens, I am prepare because I expected it. Plus, you have no where to go but up when you accept that you are living way way down. Besides, doughnuts stay softer longer in the dark than in the sunshine. That is the key.
Now, my kids would prefer that I be one of those ladies who spend their days dressed in crisp white clothing and doing "normal" charitable work. I overheard the twins telling their friends that I was "a strange goth Mom who wants our brother to be a drag queen". They were clearly humiliated that I was not the typical private school Mom that populates the land known as Ann Taylor. They were bummed that they got stuck with a chubby Asian Lily Munster who spends hours contemplating her next tattoo or pondering designing a line of jackets for her ugly hairless guinea pig instead having the perfect Priscilla Prissy Pants Mama who spends hours searching for the perfect set of seatcovers for her van or taking her Lhasa Apso to the spa to get matching manicures. While most mothers would be bummed at the less than positive portrait of themselves painted by their children, I was okay with it. Actually, I felt a little happy - just a little bit not enough to take me out of my perpetual so-so-ness - to hear my kids call me strange. It was like an off-kilter badge of honor (or is it horror?).
But then, as much as they dread seeing me get out of the car wearing one of my inappropriate t-shirts and a jeans skirt with a broken zipper, I know there is a part of them that feels relieved that their Mom can kick the crap out of anyone who gets in their way or at least looks that way. Maybe it has more to do with looking like a crazed homeless woman than looking tough. Either way, it's okay.
So, to answer the question, "Yes, for this moment, I am happy." What is the secret to my current state of bliss? The universal bearer of human joy - cold Panda Express leftovers in the fridge waiting to be eaten.
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