Wednesday, April 6, 2016

We'll Never Have Been Happier

In my middle age, am I going soft? I am going soft. I have rosy-colored glasses. I have my frog goggles on. I'm raising tadpoles. I sit around thinking gee, things are so metamorphic. 

That's how I talk to myself. There's a lot of oh, golly! Fancy that! And wow! like Brit who's also a stoned surfer.

I'm at the bottom of the U-shaped happiness curve. The bottom of the pickle barrel. Things can only go up.  There's research to prove it.

Happiness plummets in ones 40s, but "as we head into our 50s, levels of contentment take off again. By the time we're in our 60s, it's likely that we'll never have been happier."

We'll never have been happier is stilted language.

But maybe not so stilted. Or stilted is the point. 

What I need is stilts to lift myself up above the landscape, the fray, the ha-ha of middle-aged suburban motherhood's perma-frown and bills for Stages 1 through graduate school of orthodonture for my kids and into the sunlight above the clouds. The lovers, the dreamers, and me, 40-something raising tadpoles in a basin, greeting them every morning with a sparkling, "Sproglets! Why, hello!" 

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