HAVE YOU EVER BEEN completely happy? I'm talking capital-H-Happy. Something like that deep contentment you feel when you realize the god-awful hot yoga class you signed up for is finally over and you didn't, in fact, die, and the skinny instructor who is sweating prettily at the front intones namaste and rings a little bell to signal the end of all the bendy tortures, and you feel, just for that moment, full of calm, peace and light? Like you deserve to be happy. Like you've earned it. Only now, think of that feeling extending on and on and on. Like there's a little cosmic bell dinging just for you, each ting reminding you that everything is wonderful. That you have everything and everyone you need.
I am that kind of happy. And it scares the shit out of me.
My entire life has been devoted to chasing happiness in one form or another -- groping around in the dark, clutching at straws hoping they would lead me here, but mostly finding them attached to milkshakes which don't (except in the most temporary sense) deliver true contentment. Until recently, I couldn't even have told you what 'happy' would actually look like, never mind what it would feel like. All I knew was that I wasn't. Not quite, not ever.
But now? Happy.
Like, happy happy.
H-A to the double P-Y.
Of course, happiness is relative. Given my experience with it, you might not even want it for yourself because it comes with a price. I had to start seeing a therapist for the first time in my life because I didn't quite know how to deal with all this... contentment. It was giving me anxiety.
To help you understand what I mean, imagine finally getting something you've been lusting after for ages... a baby soft, tan suede moto-jacket that goes with everything but is completely impractical because it would absolutely disintegrate at the first hint of rain. The brief bliss of having what you've wanted for so long is almost immediately replaced by gut-swimmy terror at the thought of losing or damaging it. So you finally have it, but you're too afraid to wear it.
Well, that's what being really happy is like. It's like owning an expensive suede jacket.
Still, having it is better than not. This is what my therapist continually points out to me (when he's not trying to get me to balance my chakras and address my inner child).
If you want to know what happiness is worth, consider that someone recently bid 1.56 million dollars for a scrap of paper upon which Albert Einstein once scribbled what he called his "Theory of Happiness." The single sentence amounts to some rather trite advice, honestly.
"A calm and modest life brings more happiness than the pursuit of success combined with constant restlessness."
If you ask me, that's just a slightly more high-minded version of "Don't Worry, Be Happy." But whether you prefer to take your advice from Einstein or Bobby McFerrin, they each have a point.
A calm and easy-going life (preferably *with* an impractical suede jacket) really is the key to happiness, so it follows that the minute I stopped chasing a huge paycheque, resigned from my successful but soul-sucking career, and opened a small neighbourhood cafe where I work every day with people I love and honestly care about, I went from miserable to utterly, ridiculously, basket full of puppies happy.
I don't need to work behind the counter at the cafe -- we have staff for that -- but I love to do it. Most days, that's precisely where you'll find me. Up to my elbows in fresh pastries or frothing almond milk behind my shiny industrial-sized Italian espresso machine, steam causing my maniacal curls to escape comically from their pins.
This is my favourite place in the world. Before Covid turned us into a mostly take-out operation, I enjoyed the ripples of chatter and gossip that passed between the locals, and I was always happy to let them take up our tables for longer than was strictly good for business. I loved seeing people in the comfortable, coffee-scented world I'd created.
I loved how my kids would drop in after school to sit and do their homework with a free cookie. But of course, the years go fast and they've both outgrown that. Maeve, my daughter, left for university this year, and Tim, the youngest, would rather spend quality time with his video game system. Still, it's like their presence has seeped into the place. Happy memories sit like good-natured ghosts in the corners.
Everything about this place is good, which is, naturally, why we called it the All Good Things cafe when it opened five years ago. Just being here reminds me that I'm happy.
Maybe too happy, in fact, because something is about to happen that puts all this at risk. Something I would never have done if I weren't so revoltingly effervescent with joy.