It's a question I've always hesitated to answer. Am I happy? Somewhere in my head, I've always thought that if said "yes", I somehow relinquish my spot in line for more goodies. It means that I'm entirely happy with my body, completely content with my station in life, and I can put together a 4 course meal for 6 people in 30 minutes or less.
Yeah.
So I've always felt like a fraud when I said "yes." When people ask me such things, I have a compelling sense of honesty that often causes me to stall so long on my answer that they fear I've gone catatonic on them. I assume that if you're going to go to the trouble to ask such a question, you deserve an honest and thoughtful answer.
Edward and I used to argue this point a lot when we were still in college. I never felt like I could answer "yes" honestly because there were always things in my life that weren't making me happy. We'd usually go round and round until I felt somewhat satisfied that I'd convinced him "content" was really better than happy.
I have the same problem when people ask me how I am. Again, I have this compelling sense of honesty to tell them. But I recognize that not everybody *really* wants to know that I slept wrong and twisted my neck or that I had really great sex last night. I try to find a happy medium of reality to share and leave it at that. (Although I do routinely lie to cashiers. Some of them do seem genuinely interested in whether I found everything I was looking for today but I highly doubt their interest goes beyond that. Except for Safeway cashiers. They are obscenely friendly and I could probably get anti-depressant recommendations if I really committed to the conversation.)
These days, I am finding that it feels less and less fraudulent to say that I'm happy or that I'm doing well. Perhaps its just the maturity that comes with getting older or maybe I've realized that all the good things in my life aren't going to suddenly disappear overnight. Perhaps I've realized that it's okay to be happy even if I had to pluck a giant man-hair out of my face or if my hair looks like a flock of seagulls (the band or the birds - you pick) landed on my head and made themselves a nice home.
This truly is one of the things I love about getting older. Every year brings me ever closer to that sense of inner-what-the-fuck-are-you-looking-at peace. At this rate, I'm bound to be trouble later in life. I fear being locked in my senior living apartment because apparently it is NOT appropriate to come to breakfast wearing a feather boa and high heels. Only a feather boa and high heels.
I can't wait.
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