Brand New

Discomfort.
Disquiet.
Fidgety –

Happiness. Is it real? Is it tangible? Sometimes I think I can feel it, other times I swear I can taste it [and I’m not talking about Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia-or even cheesecake –which I’ve often equated to being better than orgasm. C’mon, the average orgasm last 2 seconds. 2 measly seconds. A good slice of cheesecake can last long, delicious, glorious, exuberant minutes building to the pinnacle of just licking the fork clean because you are spent and exhausted from all the lovely endorphins and chemicals (read sugar) rushing into your blood stream and slamming into your neuro-connectors. Closer to heaven than actual happiness.] I’m talking happiness. Does it last or is it some fleeting feeling that even our idealist forefathers knew we could not obtain and keep, hence the whole “pursuit” liability clause?
Sometimes I feel happy. Sometimes it overcomes me and I feel that I will burst from fear or joy or just shatter because I cannot contain all the simultaneous emotions I know are going to erupt and, like Mount Vesuvius, take every thing and everyone and destroy us all.
And really I know that it’s me, being crazy. Because if I feel that kind of joy, it isn’t real.
Sooner, rather than later, I’m going to fall, not necessarily hard, but just come down and be bummed. Bummed that I no longer feel elated? Possibly. But this feeling, this overpowering sadness, I would say is real, and it lasts.
But happiness, true happiness: does it exist? Is it just fleeting moments and with luck, we can string all the moments together to craft a crown or a netting that covers us, protects us, reminds us, and comforts us?
Is it a state of being—a state for your soul to reside in? Pop culture artists, authors, publishers, advertising execs, and the religious say a resounding “Yes!” Buy this book and beer and subscribe to this god and witness the beauty of the synergistic harmony of all of today and know that it is art and art is life and aren’t we happy? I just got a new Jaguar.
I’ll tell you the last time I was happy. I went dancing. Now I love dancing, or at least I used to. I loved to move with the music. I loved the way my body felt and swayed. I loved the songs and the feeling of freedom I used to get. Of course, I used to be free. I was under 18, out until 4 a.m. and had my own car. My parents trusted me-and most of the time I was just out dancing. Not much to fear. OH, yeah, and they gave me an allowance, clothe, fed and sheltered me. All I had to do was go to school, which sometimes I did.
I’m talking dancing now, or at least, last night. Going out with friends and worrying if they will have a good time, because it was my suggestion. And I think it’s a blast, but they could be uninviting to the “happiness” bird, or the laugh bug, or the silliness cootie that you can catch, but really it catches you. Luckily, I wasn’t out with antiseptic types (they stayed home). And we relaxed and enjoyed.
And I am much larger now than I was in high school. Much. (More on that later, I’m sure.) And at first I felt self-conscious about dancing. It’d been ages. In fact, I hadn’t danced in this millennium. Not even in my underwear, knowing it doesn’t make me Madonna. I hadn’t felt loose or comfortable. And I started to dance and feel self-conscious (danger: poison to dancing well), but then I had a startling thought through my 80’s self-torture: I’m at a lowly club. A club (which shall remain nameless because currently I cannot afford a lengthy, expensive trial) that, in my uninformed but highly prejudiced opinion, only holds stupid people—losers, if you will—who only want to look cool, to see and to been seen, people I don’t have the time of day for. So who cares if they think I’m fat? Who cares if they think I can’t dance? Who cares about their opinion? --They go to (insert lowly club name here), for pity’s sake!
So last night, when friends came… not just acquaintances, I was ready. Except for the nervous, will we have a good time mantra (see above). And I got out there and boogied. And it was good.
And I was free. And even (male) friend got on the floor. And I was so happy. I clapped my hands and announced it (not that anyone could hear over the racket). And I realized that I had perfected my 80’s, bored, look far away glance, the I-could-stand-to-be-here-but-I’d-rather-be-there look. And he was looking at me. And making eye contact whenever I would allow him to. And I would see a flicker. My soul matching his. A longing, a connectivity. And I would have to look away. My eyes would skim away and I would force myself to look again. But I could feel myself falling and longing.
Background: I have fallen for this person no fewer than 3 times. 3 times! What is that? We have been friends a very long time. And he is a hard person to get to know. But he is sensitive and fantastic. And I feel a certain affinity toward him. Like we have kindred spirits. Anyway, it’s been a long time, and he (although quite dense) has never wanted to go forward, or so I gather. And all his chickee’s have been small, slender type girls. I’m not slender. I’m not small. And even if I were, I am not mousy. Let’s put it this way: I’m as big as life-I’m big in every way. Loud, rambunctious, obnoxious, annoying, I have a cackle when I laugh, and you could never, never not see me (although seems like some people try). Even if he wanted to take things further-we would be a disastrous couple. I would walk all over him. Not that I would want to, I just would. I would rail all over his feelings and he’d be miserable. He’s that sensitive.
So here I am dancing and I get the floaty, uncomfortable feeling that means—what does it mean? I am in danger of drowning in his eyes, and I keep forcing myself to look back at him, to meet his gaze (it only seems polite). And I can’t stand it. I smile, I look away. I swallow. I look around and come back. I get off the dance floor. Finally, after this ritual is repeated-my disquiet has me at breaking level. I feel giddy, I feel Stupid (yes, with capital “S”). I take off my glasses. And maybe that way, I cannot see into his soul when I look into his eyes. I go smoke a friend’s cigarette. I calm down, as he didn’t come. And the happiness subsides and so does the illness, but the antsy-ness remains.
And why is it so uncomfortable to not have pavement beneath your feet? Why is it sickening to not have something familiar to cling to (ahh, lovely puff of smoke)?
Why are we uncomfortable with joy, love, freedom? (How many times have you heard of someone who just became lost/sick after retirement, because they had no place to go everyday?) Do we just trudge along because we have OCD? Were we not taught to expect more? Did we need to be taught that? Or did we have “Expect Less!” drilled into our heads until it seeped into our souls? I return to reality, laugh at myself and thank goodness that I am myself again. Dull, boring, and sad. But comfortable.