Happiness is Overrated

I read a letter to an advice columnist from a guy named Jamie. He had decided he needed to jettison some friends from his life – friends who weren’t making him happy. It made me think, and of course thinking makes me write. 

Oh, Jamie, 32 years old and deciding that happiness is the most important thing and that you can afford to kiss friends goodbye who don’t make you happy? Phew. Just wait until you’re 62 or 72 or 82 and see how much that perspective has changed. If life, for you, is still about having your washing and ironing done and your bills paid, I’d be surprised. Your little run-in with some illness issues might have frightened you, and I get it – at your age, that is a shock. A little later, a blink of the eye really, no longer surprised by illness, your cabinet stocked with little amber medicine bottles, you might wish for more, not fewer friends. Let me explain.

At 78, I have widened, not narrowed, my circle of friends and am richer for it. I have friends much younger than I – maybe even twenty years younger. We talk about the kinds of things I don’t talk to my age-appropriate peers about. One of my younger friends is dating again after being a widow for quite a few years; it’s so much fun listening to her analysis of the dating game in her early fifties. Another recently had a hysterectomy and is concerned at how her sex life will be affected.  I enjoy honest conversations with both of these gals about something I have long since stopped worrying about.

I have book club friends and we rarely talk about the book; we talk about grandkids and retirement and ill loved ones and ongoing insecurities. We meet for lunch every couple of months.

I write, so I have a writer’s group. Four of us are old enough to remember JFK’s assassination. We love to read each other’s musings. Would I call these people friends? Of course, but they are in my widened circle.

I have online friends. Some are Facebook friends – people I knew once personally and have moved away from, or they me, so we manage to stay connected this way. But then there are some I met at an online writing symposium. We connected immediately and have stayed in touch sporadically for over a year. They, too, are writers, so they are articulate and expressive and you wouldn’t believe some of the things we are able to talk about, teach each other about, having never physically met.

The smaller circle contains my old, old friends – some since junior high school, some since college, and some since my days as a career woman. There are a few I have distanced myself from, granted, since our views on the weightier issues are in direct contrast, but if they were to call me with a sick husband I would be there. I don’t give up on friends; I don’t pitch them from my life if they don’t make me happy. Sometimes things that make me sad are at least as meaningful to me as the things that make me smile.

Some of my best friends are dead, see, and I feel their loss. I miss them and realize how fleeting life is. I stand in my kitchen and use something one of my now departed friends gave me or I remember buying it with her there, and it hurts, but I love it that I have that memory. My life is so much richer for having had those much-loved friends in it.

And the tighter circle yet? My family, of course: My husband and two kids and their spouses and the two babies. Yes, babies. At 75 my 38-yr.old daughter had her first – the love of my life, a grandson – and two years later she had another – my nine-month old granddaughter. They make me happy and sad, I worry about them and fret over them, and hurt when they hurt, but they are what give my life purpose, and that, my young friend matters so much more than happiness. I have a purpose. I’m Nana. It’s not my only purpose; I have a less-than-hardy husband who I take care of, and I edit technical texts for my son. And I write my novels and stories that no one has ever heard of. Purpose.

Not for all of us does life become about happiness and reducing stress. And everything will stop being fun eventually, trust me, but you won’t be able to just leave. And overthinking can’t really harm you; you never know, you might find enlightenment in one of those thinking cycles. And some day the only time you will have is spare time; busy-ness will be a thing of the past.

I’m doing end-of -life thinking right now – making arrangements, as they say. I’m de-cluttering and writing letters to loved ones letting them know what they meant to me. Is it fun? I suppose I would call it fulfilling; maybe that’s a mature form of fun. These times are meaningful and sometimes tearful. Some of my friends are going through awful stuff and they aren’t any fun to talk to, but those talks help me grow and help them feel heard. Growing and being of service beats happiness, hands down.

Every relationship I’ve ever had has taught me something – about myself, mostly. Even the negative ones—maybe especially the negative ones. I had one person in my life – a really close friend – who drained my energy. She could be cruel and narcissistic and self-righteous, and so I let her go. But my anger at her fueled me to write a novel – I ended up writing three of them, actually, probably just to show her. She called me one day and I didn’t answer. Two months later her son called me to tell me she had ended her life. I don’t blame myself; I know what her demons were, but I wish I had answered the phone. Was I so delicate, so fragile that I couldn’t take whatever hurtful thing I thought she was going say? Now I’ll never know and that haunts me. If you let go of friends because they are difficult and challenging, you might just not learn what they have to teach you.

My advice would be dive into the fray. Live fully and with passion and purpose. Don’t aim for a stress-free life, one that is mellow, one that honors only self-preservation. Take risks – in friendships and in life. Open yourself up to people. Widen your circle; don’t narrow it. Embrace prickly. Comfortable isn’t always the best way to be. Comfort breeds complacency. Sometimes discomfort is a great motivator. Don’t try to decide what kind of person you want to be – just be it. And drag some friends along to talk to as you go.

Hair

I decided to stop coloring my hair. I mean, after all, it was ridiculous the money I spent to stay a brunette every five or six weeks, and six was too long. The worse thing was that we had moved to north-central Florida from south Florida, and even though we had reasons to go back (Ed’s mom was still alive) it felt crazy to have my hair cut and colored by my favorite stylist, a four hour drive. Talk about a major inconvenience.

So, here I am, nearly all of the insane things I did to my hair (highlights, lowlights, toner, you name it) have nearly been shorn by my new stylist, Melanie. I said I was trying to ease into this final stage of life rather than just let it happen. Denial, I think they call it. Melanie is great with short, short pixie cuts, so all my efforts to stave off aging have fallen onto the parlor floor, been swept up and tossed out. And my hair, most of it, is white now. And I mean white. When people talk about race and call themselves white? Let me tell you: no one is truly white. My hair is.

I almost gasp every time I look in the mirror. We drove to Tampa to see some friends we hadn’t seen in a while, and my girlfriend said, “Oh, my.” I know, I know. It will take some getting used to. It’s got to be harder on the people looking at me than it is for me; I only have to look in the mirror once or twice a day. I can’t imagine her dismay as we sat and talked for hours. Poor thing.

I swear, I think my husband doesn’t even know I have hair. I used to do drastic things to my then brown hair and he never said a word unless I asked, “How do you like my hair?”

“It looks nice,” he would say, I know no doubt asking himself what was different about me. Clueless.

I feel like I should get a decent photo of me like this and post it on Facebook and Google for email because every time I look at my profile picture, I feel like a fake. All the selfies I’ve taken I’ve deleted. They make me look old. I keep saying that when it all grows in pure white I’ll do it or have someone professional do it. But for now when you go to my Facebook page or get an email from me, I want you to know: I don’t look like that anymore. Soon I'll get around to changing my profile picture, even here on my blog.

It made no sense! I live in the woods – five acres in a tiny town a half hour from a decent-sized city. My three-year-old grandson still asks me to get down on the floor and play with him, and my baby granddaughter studies my face with serious concentration, makes some kind of decision, and throws herself from her mother’s arms to reach for me, so I guess I’ve managed to impress the only two people in the world I care to dazzle.

I was working before and wanted to keep the illusion that I wasn’t an old person who still needed to work. So I dyed my hair. I’m not working any longer – well not for pay and not anyplace that I can’t just stay in my pajamas to do what I do. Those of us who are good with words will always be able to “work;” in fact, we’ll never be able to stop. Writing is a blessing and a curse. I’m driven to write. Just look at this little silly thing about me going gray. I couldn’t stop myself from putting it down on paper. Such a dork. And now I’m one who looks her age.

Going to borrow something someone else wrote, that I might have embellished just a tad, but something I feel needs to be said. It's political. Posted by a Christian Pastor, James Lyttle, on September 17, 2018:

“I remember the day after the 2016 Election, a friend of mine who happens to be white, remarked on social media that he “finally wasn’t embarrassed by America and our President.” Others claimed they had "suffered" during Obama's presidency.

Since then I’ve heard those sentiments echoed by more white folks than I can count: supposed relief at once again having a leader who instills pride.

Since I don’t have the time to ask each of them individually, I’ll ask here:

What exactly were you embarrassed by?

Were you embarrassed by Barack Obama's lone and enduring twenty-five year marriage to a strong woman whom he’s never ceased to publicly praise, respect, or cherish?

Were you embarrassed by the way he lovingly and sweetly parented and protected his daughters?

Were you embarrassed by his eloquence, his quick wit, his easy humor, his seeming comfort meeting with both world leaders and street cleaners; by his bright smile or his sense of empathy or his steadiness—perhaps by his lack of personal scandals or verbal gaffes or impulsive tirades?

No. Of course you weren’t.

As as for how you suffered, how did you suffer when the American Auto industry broke sales records, or when clean energy doubled, or when the deficit was cut, or when unemployment was cut in half, or when Osama bin Laden was eliminated or the stock market tripled or when he won the Nobel Peace Prize, or became Time Person of the Year?

Honestly, I don’t believe ever suffered by being embarrassed. That word implies an association that brings ridicule, one that makes you ashamed by association, and if that’s something you claim to have experienced over the eight years of having Barack Obama representing you in the world, I’m going to suggest you rethink your word choice.

You weren’t “embarrassed” by Barack Obama.

You were threatened by him.
You were offended by him.
You were challenged by him.
You were enraged by him.

But I don’t believe it had anything to do with his resume or his experience or his character or his conduct in office because many of you seem fully proud right now to be associated with a three-time married, serial adulterer and confessed predator; a man whose election and business dealings and relationships are riddled with controversy and malfeasance. You’re perfectly fine being represented by a bullying, obnoxious, genitalia-grabbing, Tweet-ranting, Prime Minister-shoving charlatan who’s managed to offend all our allies and insult distinguish world leaders, National public servants, and local authorities. And you’re okay with him putting on religious faith like a rented, dusty, ill-fitting tuxedo and immediately tossing it in the garbage when he’s finished with it.

None of that you’re embarrassed by? I wonder how that works.

Actually, I’m afraid I have an idea. I hope I’m wrong.

Listen, you’re perfectly within your rights to have disagreed with Barack Obama’s policies or to have taken issue with his tactics. No one’s claiming he was a flawless politician or a perfect human being. But somehow I don’t think that’s what we’re talking about here. I think the thing President Obama did that really upset you, white friend, was having a complexion that was far darker than you were ever comfortable with. I think the President we have now feels much better, decidedly whiter.

Because objectively speaking, if what’s happening in our country right now doesn’t cause you great shame, I don’t believe embarrassment is ever something you struggle with.

No, if you claimed to be “embarrassed” by Barack Obama but you’re not embarrassed by Donald Trump, I’m going to strongly suggest it was largely a pigmentation issue.

Been away too long...

I'm so sorry to have neglected my blog; I need to think of it as a journal that someday I will be able to look back on--hopefully fondly rather than with embarrassment. Honestly, what has taken my attention is the political situation in our country. I see that it has been a year since I've been here, and I'm sure I've ranted about our miserable excuse for a leader on Facebook and to my friends, and in the meantime the grands are growing and becoming more amazing by the day. It's not that I don't notice that because I do. I'm present to both of them and delight in their newly emerging personalities nearly daily, at least weekly. I feel very lucky to be able to have this opportunity at my advanced age to have these little folks to love. 

On a less positive note, I am so distressed at our country's devolving into a crass, boorish exclusionary mood because of the antics of our man-child president. He is bringing such humiliation to the office of president, every day. Here it is 11/11/18 and he flew to France to honor the soldiers who died there, along with Germany's Merkel, France's Macron, and even Canada's Trudeau, and he stayed in his hotel room rather than get rained on while the rest of them stood in the rain to honor the brave men and women who fought to their deaths in the mud. I'm so ashamed, as of course he should be, but Trump knows no shame, never felt it.

I've also been writing, so I have something to show for this past year. Now I'm in a quandary about what to do with that writing. I have revised my novel Carved In Stone and it's probably ready for a real edit. I have written several - maybe a dozen short stories that I think have promise, and should enter them in contests or something, but just don't know where to go next. 

Oh, and my friend Jean and her crisis have kept me involved with her. More about that later. 

I just wanted to put this short note here, and make a promise to do better from now on.

Luv, Pat