I saw a friend the other afternoon for coffee and he told me that I looked happy. “Are you happy?” he asked and I waffled because I suspect that if I admit to being happy, the happiness gods will smite me. I’m not sure what I’m thinking exactly, that I will jinx the happiness, that I will be like Greek hero felled by hubris, or just that I will be proven very, very wrong, but it seems wrong to talk about being happy, especially out loud, especially to other people.
The other day I had a fleeting thought, and I didn’t even voice it and it came to haunt me. The thought was, and I’m not at all comfortable repeating it here, but maybe if I use a different font? The thought was, WOW! I haven’t been sick in forever! As a matter of fact, I can’t remember the last time I sneezed! And wouldn’t you know it, later that night I was embracing the toilet tenderly and violently parting company with the contents of my stomach and perhaps every other organ as well. So I know all about what thinking can lead to.
And now Neil was trying to get me to admit to happiness, in direct violation of my Fifth Amendment rights against self-incrimination.
“You are, aren’t you?” he persisted and when I said something like, “I..I am not good at..worried..jinxing..possibly insane…unstable-”
He gasped.
“You’re at an 8, aren’t you?
I knew exactly what he meant. An 8 on the happiness scale of 10. I don’t even know why it goes up to 10, to be honest, what with all the atrocities and Republicans in the world. How could a 10 exist?
But I was at a solid 8, which for me is off the charts.
I am happy. I have a great family, supportive, interesting parents, smart, funny kids, furry cats (potential plot twist: one of the cats appears to be pregnant. Both cats are (a) indoor (b) female (c) spayed, so I’m excited about the upcoming Immaculate Conception: Feline Edition) and I’m in love with the Guy I Went to Ireland With. I know I’m in love with him because the other day I spent some time telling him how much I hate him. That’s what true love looks like, in case you’re wondering.
So, 8. Unless writing this plummets me to a 4. And if that happens, all the atrocities and Republicans will just have to stop to level things out for me.
Anyway, enough about me. What’s your number?
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