I’ve made my feelings known the benefits of just saying “Fuck It.” Go ahead and say it. It feels good, right? It touches into something genuine. For just a moment, you let go and allow your inner-asshole to emerge, and it rings a bell. Fuck it. Yessss.
Must. Force. Happy. Now.
If you google “Happiness,” you’ll find endless, sometimes conflicting articles touting the appropriate recipe to “Get happy!” The exclamation point implies a level of excitement and enthusiasm that is hard to achieve in life without the help of drugs and/or massive denial of reality. It also sounds like a demand. Do it. Get happy, goddamn it! You’re not happy! What’s wrong with you?
Couldn’t we just be a little cranky? Please?
This pressure to be cheerful is ever-present. We view and post selfies with grins so wide it is hard to discern whether the person in the photo is ecstatic in their surroundings or grimacing in pain. We all do it, if we’re being honest. I am as caught up in this happiness craze as anyone, which is to say that intermittently make myself absolutely miserable by Trying! To BE! Happy!!!
And for the record, I’m ok. It’s not a cry for help. But could we cool it we with the never-ending Joy Olympics and aim for something richer and more sustainable? Maybe we could aim to just be content. Or – when life is handing us multiple lemons – we could be angry or sad or distraught about the lemons for a few minutes before throwing a sheet over it and acting like it didn’t happen? “Move along folks. Everything’s happy here. Nothing to see.”
Let’s hear it. I want to hear about your bad day when you’ve had one. I want to laugh about our shared misery – the absurdity of it all. The happy Happy HAPPINESS is giving me a severe case of the creeps. Please make it stop.