Why Everybody Else Is Happier Than You

I have a big house, a husband who sees to my needs, a boy I adore, and friends who’ve got my back. But these things are just the facts of a fuller story that no one in the know would envy. Who would think that I who have it all, by appearances, can understand why Facebook famously feeds depression? The Happiest Virtual Place On Earth can feel like one endless reminder of the Things That Are Missing in your life. After a ginger foray into that part of social media this year, I found myself leaving the screen disturbed – and sad – and eventually realized the feelings came from wounds that have yet to heal. Offline, I look at the people around me. My single friends would give an arm to be married. Those with families of their own each have their burden, ones I am grateful to have been spared. So why do we remain convinced others were dealt better cards, when we are every one of us in need of support and understanding?

happier-disney-castle

Reasons We’re Sure Everybody Is Happier Than Us*

1. We are unsatisfied with our lot, no matter how it turns. The human condition is not, in the language of mathematicians, an equation but an inequality: My life < The Ideal. A literary metaphor would make us an unfinished story, which is why our hearts beat for more. More money, more time, more joy, more toys, more love. We bring to the table our fractured perspective, limited understanding, hopes conceived of an unresolved past. We will never, by the bootstraps of our humanness, be able to complete our relationships because we can’t complete ourselves.

2. Our sense of entitlement. Conflict in these imperfect relationships gives us away and pride declares, “I deserve better. He owes me appreciation, recognition. She should’ve given me the benefit of the doubt.” Disgruntled where we are, how nice and green is the grass on the other side.

3. The myth of perfectionism. I borrow some insights from Alain Botton, author of the NY Times article Why You Will Marry the Wrong Person, on our misguided notions of love because nowhere else do we so generously spin our fantasies of happiness. In a recent roundtable entitled How We Choose Our Spouses, Botton spoke of the reaction his article had garnered:

What was interesting was that people were overwhelming relieved. Look, it’s like telling people you will have an unhappy life…I think that often we suffer from a burden of shame around how difficult it is that we find it to live, to love, to make good choices…And the reason that there is something oppressive in being told that only perfection will do as the basis of marriage, is that so many of our marriages, under that kind of judgment, have to seem below par and it can seem rather punitive and oppressive as if we have failed to measure up to a standard which most of us simply cannot measure up to.

We allow Facebook and blogs to perpetuate the hope in fairy tales, the expectation that we grow up and live happy, photogenic lives.

We should learn to accommodate ourselves to ”wrongness,” striving always to adopt a more forgiving, humorous and kindly perspective on its multiple examples in ourselves and in our partners…We don’t need people to be perfect in love. We need people to be good enough.

4. Love, according to Botton, is not an impulse of feeling but a skill. It isn’t pay dirt at emotional Roulette but “with all of us deeply broken, a chance of success in love means being able to deal with our brokenness, both inside ourselves and in a partner.” I’d say this truth holds for all our relationships. “Compatibility is ultimately an achievement of love. It shouldn’t be…the precondition of falling in love.” Love is something you work, and often work hard, at. You manage expectations of spouse, friend, self, and life, being able to explain your craziness as you grow in self-awareness. But we somehow believe life doesn’t exact so much effort of those around us.

Jumping off track a bit, let me share that my About page earned 2000 likes this weekend. I didn’t get to the celebration video, a toss-up between Yours Truly kicking up heels to Great Balls of Fire or crooning into the mic in a red dress. So hopefully this will do. Your gestures of affection and regard have meant a great deal to me and I appreciate every one of you. When Facebook gets me down, psh, I’ll just come back to my blog.

*HW won out in the argument with her twin The Grammar Mafia and managed to keep the vernacular with the objective pronoun.

STRANDED

Now, why’s the AC dying again? We just fixed it. Weird. Car’s sluggish, too.

Mph: 70. 60. 50. 45.

Ok. Gotta pull over. I run the hazard lights and crawl over two lanes to the shoulder. Just in time. The Sienna gives out and it takes me a minute to realize the hood’s smoking. My eyes fall to the cubbyhole where the mobile usually sits. Great. The day I run out of the house without it. Noted, husband. Noted. I can make out Pyrite Exit, 1/2 Mile up the freeway and all I can do is hope for a gas station there. I collect my hat, keys, and the little water I have but don’t go five yards before deciding, “Not in these sandals. Not in this sun.” Turning back toward the car, I do the only thing left to get to a phone. I stick out my thumb. As the minutes wear on, I’m not sure what strikes in me greater wonder. Finding myself “hitchhiking” or seeing that nobody was stopping. I am also a little nervous about who might want to come to the aid of a lone woman.

Before I can worry too much, a car horn interjects and I spin to see a beat-up truck behind the fence. Cozy in the front, three Latino men who look to be in their twenties wave. Apply every politically incorrect stereotype and judge by appearances, and these were not guys a sober helpless female would turn to for help. Here goes nothing. My New York sense of adventure moves me forward.

“Hi. Can you please call my husband, tell him I’m stuck on the 60 and need AAA?”

The men smile and three cell phones appear in a flash. The guy nearest me in Shotgun beats his friends to it and waiting through the rings, apologetically swings a tattooed arm to keep his cigarette smoke from me.

“Honey, it’s me!” I call out to prove the call is no prank.

I’m told help is on the way and decline the men’s offer to stay with me. As they pull away, the guys point behind me and looking back toward the freeway I see a young man in something like a Corvette smiling as if to ask, “Anything I can do?”

“Thank you so much but my husband is coming.” I nod my thanks and in a few minutes make out a police car in the distance. California Highway Patrol stops to make sure I’m okay and offers the cooled vehicle for a waiting room but I’m not feeling venturesome enough to climb into the backseat I associate with a jail cell. And then my knight in shining armor pulls up.

________________________________________________________________________

Later: “When I heard a man’s voice on the line saying, ‘Your wife…’ your life flashed before my eyes. I thought I’d lost you and saw myself putting T in school. And writing on your blog.

Over my dead body.

stranded3

 

My Wife Is An Animal

Blue = Mr.  Black = Mrs.

Listen to this, the 2014 Reader’s Digest: “LIMIT ARGUMENTS TO THREE MINUTES. John Gottman of the University of Washington found that the most important points in any argument can be found in the first three minu–
I’d LOVE that! I’ll hold up three fingers to signal time’s up and you have to stop being pissed.
— after that people often repeat themselves at higher decibels
.
*Guffaw*


Do you ever get tired of hearing that you’re right?
No.
Because I get tired of saying it.


If you missed Car Accident – in the Garage, one of the first posts on the Holistic Journey, don’t enjoy the prequel to the latest mishap too much. In a hurry getting out of the house last week, I somehow backed out of the garage before the door had rolled all the way up. The damage wasn’t as horrifyingly extensive this time but the door has a new, shall we say, design. A mold of the back of the minivan.

I’ll need to fix it with somebody. The bump is too big to tackle alone and we have to keep mice and cats out.
*Hardly able to get the words out in the laughing* I know how we can fix it.
How?
Ram it from the other side.
*Laughing along* “That is really funny. And logical.

 

Actually, you are the perfect opossum. It looks cute but when you get in its face, it is one scary mother.
How do you know this?
I ran into an opossum once. When I was a security guard. I was patrolling the grounds at midnight and thought I saw a cat, thought I’d chase it away. When I reached it, I saw it was moving too slow for a cat. I thought, this is no cat. It’s an opossum. It bared its fangs at me.
What did you do?
I slowwly backed off, saying, “Whatever you want, honey. You win.”

possum4

 

The Things You Lose in Marriage

March 6
Mrs: (Exasperated at the A.D.D.)
Mr: It’s been 11 yrs.
Mrs: (Thinking no kidding.)
Mr: You should be used to it by now.
Mrs: *Disbelief*

March 20
Mr: I realized you have your own love language. You love me by serving [not with words or gestures of affection]. When you make me food without sugar and fat, that’s your gush.
Mrs: B thought I have the gift of encouragement. I know people who do and I am SO not one of them.
Mr: *pensive* I think you do. You can be very encouraging with others. You’re just hard on me and Tennyson sometimes. You know you’re driven, right? Mentally, physically, with his school, in every way. You’re hard on us because you’re critical of yourself.
Mrs: (Cupping his face, in baffled search for a clue.) How in the world are you so insightful tonight?? What did you eat today? You…had fruit. Was it the fruit??!

Pinterest: The Mission Inn

Pinterest: The Mission Inn

March 24
After a private celebration at the ritziest restaurant in town
Mrs: Honey, I’d forgotten I enjoyed fine dining and went out often in Pennsylvania.
Mr: Now you’re just a mom.
Mrs: Greaat

March 26
Mrs: Not tonight, honey. I have a headache. And you know what? I’m sure I’ll have one tomorrow, too. But you’ll have gas again, so there.
(When we’d stopped laughing) Hey, I should blog that. Would you mind if I did?
Mr: Go right ahead.
Mrs: Really? Wow, you’ve changed. You’d let me post that, huh? What – no shame? No pride? Dignity, self-resp —
Mr: You can stop now.

================

There are snippets here about relationships in time. Please welcome the guests as we slide into our miniseries, a look back in time. I’ll be bringing up the rear. Hope you join us in the remembering.

Last year
Mr: Can I guest blog?
Mrs: *Chortle. Nonstop*
Mr: Is that a no?
Mrs: *Guffaw. Laugh. Laugh*

Last night
Mr: I should open a WordPress account anonymously and send you submissions.

Love: Sometimes You Want Your Money Back

A simple man, all he had was the dream he would build her with his two hands. I was watching my husband on screen, having agreed to see Brooklyn with no knowledge of what it was about. Tony was a lot like the Mister and I, much like Eilis the contemplative, strait-laced student. But these weren’t the reasons I found the film interesting. It sprang right out of my last post, The Path You Might Have Taken. I’m going to curb the storytelling but if you’re like me and hate spoilers, skip on down to the romantic off-screen dialogue.

Agog, I became impatient with Eilis when she started toying with Jim. Entirely out of character, her actions just weren’t credible. I then realized the script would’ve fallen flat if she’d behaved predictably. Not only would there be no cinematic climax, no struggle meant no discovery, inner resolution, or growth. And wait. Haven’t I acted out of character at times? We don’t live and certainly don’t love in smooth moral trajectory. One foot in Brooklyn on the land of dreams an ocean away, Eilis tests the other on a diverging future as if the commitment she had made were exchangeable. She eventually pulls a foot out and learns the power and responsibility of choice. While I enjoyed the film, I was surprised at the slew of award nominations, considering that it wasn’t high drama or action. Goes to show we never tire of the sweet love story or the question of what might have been.

PrepSpeaking of which, I walked down the aisle 11 years ago this day. (Note the numbers 1-23. So the man doesn’t forget.) Thank you, honey, for wooing me all over again. Happy Anniversary.

Mrs: You had NOTHING and I married you.
Mr: I…really don’t know if I should be thoroughly insulted…or proud.
—————————————————-
Kneeling

A calm, respectful request:
Mr: When I say something you think is stupid, can you just be SILENT? You can give me the you’re-such-a-dork look but can you just please stay QUIET? I will love you even more.
Mrs: Silence! Hmf. Silence??
DanceReceptionHuh.

—————————————————
Regarding this transaction we call marriage:

Mr: Hey, I want my money back. *laugh*
Mrs: YoU? YOU want your money back??!
*laugh…laugh….laugh*

 

Witness

I was chopping vegetables for dinner, silent tears running down my face.

I had just gotten off the phone with my sister. It was cancer.

She was terrified and feeling alone, despite the love I tried to pour through the phone. All I could do was listen and witness her pain. Be a witness to her strength. To the woman she was before this label she was already chafing against: cancer patient. I had held it together for her but after hanging up, broke down. All that was left now were tears and the sound of the knife on the cutting board.

My husband came home. He walked in, set down his backpack, glanced at me and went about his business.

As I cried, he checked his voicemail. Got himself a drink. Went through the mail. When the tears did not stop after 20 minutes, he asked me what was wrong. He stood about five feet away, as if my grief might be contagious. When I told him Anne had cancer, he said with a very distinct remoteness, “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” And walked out of the room into the office, shutting the door.

Something in me clicked.

I had, of late, become somewhat resigned to feeling lonely in my marriage. I had struggled for years over the right thing to do. I stayed mainly for my kids and if I am completely honest, also because I was terrified of being in the world again without financial support. But that night, I knew I deserved more. More respect. More love. More understanding. More dignity.

And so I followed him into the office and asked quietly, “Do you still love me?” His answer was no. He thought our marriage was damaged beyond repair.

My Before had just ended, and at my own hands. And the first of many Afters had begun.

 

Kristine at candidkay

Ruthless Blogger

Mr: So if I start blogging would you proof my posts and promote my site?

Mrs: *Disbelief* You gotta build your own readership.

Mr: Hey, being married to the Holistic Wayfarer must come with benefits. I provide the house you live in.

Mrs: I gave you Tennyson. *Wild card never fails*

Mr: I contributed half. *Shoot*

Mrs: I slaved to build my blog. You think you can just ride on my coattail? I never mentioned A Holistic Journey in my vows.

Mr: *Ten minutes later* I want a cut of the blog royalty later. I’ve given you post ideas.

Mrs: Man does have a point.