Perhaps it is due to the unhappiness of our times that we’ve become obsessed with being happy, with who’s happy, with who’s unhappy, what groups are likely to be happy, what action and behaviors are certain to make one unhappy. Rarely a week can go by without the media regurgitating some asinine–and completely arbitrary–poll conducted by a university, a think tank, or a research group telling us that “65% of married people claim unhappiness”, “Blacks not happy”, “Christians happy”, “Teenagers sad, sad, sad”. By what measurement have they come to these conclusions? And what exactly is the medical definition of being ‘happy’?
And for every person who answers with shame that “No, I’m not happy”, there’s a Barnum standing by with no end of cures and concoctions. The ‘happiness’ industry may very well be bigger than the tobacco and real-estate markets. The self-help section of the bookstore is increasing faster than the national debt. People are packing into the pews with fervor not seen in the caves of the middle-east. Pills are being dispensed to the unhappy of all ages like candy–actually, I don’t think that’s even an apt analogy anymore. Everyday a new book, a new secret, a new philosophy, religion, pill, exercise, way of having sex, sleep-number bed, body-spray promises us this elusive happiness. When did we come to the consensus that one is supposed to be happy, that this ‘El Dorado’ should be our life’s mission and that we should dedicate 1/3 of our life’s earnings to finding it. And, more importantly, who is happy? 
I’m not happy. I’ve had happy moments, sure. And they’re certainly things worth being happy about. To wit:
- Tom Waits will, eventually, I suppose, put out another album.
- Henry James wrote books.
- New York City was built.
- George Bush will be leaving in January.
But on the whole am I happy: No! If I laid out every moment of my life and judged the overall mood of each one, I’d have to say that I’ve lived my existence somewhere in the middle: not too happy, not too sad. And I’m not unhappy about my lack of exuberant happiness; who decided that we had to be happy all the time or even 65% of the time? Things happen in life: some good, some bad, some just so-so; You can’t react to all of it with one constant emotion. Happiness is not humanness. You don’t get to be happy all the time! And the lack-of-happiness is not indicative of somethings worth. So what if married people are happy or unhappy, it says nothing about marriage (this does), teenagers–teenagers are definitely not supposed to be happy (were you?), in fact, I trust no one under the age of 35 who claims–even in the remotest sense–to be ‘happy’.
The happiness myth is an attempt by these think tank university miscreants and assorted frauds & hucksters to judge the lives of other people in a way that is unanswerable and undebatable. If I say “People from the south” are not happy, who’s to prove me wrong? They can, of course, say “well, yes I am!” to which I’d respond “Prove it!”. And how can they? They can’t! No one can because no one is really happy, not in the ridiculous and fantastical sense we’ve come to define the word. Everyone–who isn’t on some sort of narcotic–is just somewhere in the middle: not too happy, not too sad. The sooner we all understand that, the sooner we can all be happy.
Have you considered Subscribing to all of this madness?
Here, in the beginning was the word. And the word said 'here' and here he was. He knew not why he was here (do any of us?), but he was here and there was nothing else here, only darkness--though lacking even the quantity called 'darkness'. And though there was not yet loneliness, terror, or cold; the being found himself terribly lonely and cold. Before the being could utter a magic word or a command, light raised up to the sky and illumination seeped onto the earth causing the being to smile for a moment, but then again he found himself crying because the light had only further lit up and revealed the full extent of nothingness.
The old men of the village had their eyes firmly focused on politics again. And the economy. And property values. And sports. But not their wives; their wives were safe at home now--safe and unlooked on. The candlelit dinners and music, the awkward dancing and even more awkward reading of poetry had stopped when the young men left. No need for it anymore. Yes, the old leaders of the village no longer had to watch their spouses like hawks--even though they sat at home all day, bored. So, though there was a war going on, the elders were all noticeably calmer than during peacetime and the council meeting had a relaxed air to it.
"Liberty Univer..." Mark stopped. It was the first time either of them had said that, the word "kill". Madison Square was completely dark now except for a few people at the enclosed dog-run. 
Kyle thought as he went for a better arrangement of the list. His structure still seemed off and taking it out of alphabetical order hadn't fixed the problem. He scribbled down on his notepad again: Homosexuals, blacks, Aisans, lesbians...
Both the young teenager and the old officer were terribly embarrassed as the Police cruiser careened through some of Wilson's earliest paved roads. 
There was nothing that crazy about the nickname; Americans are a practical, simple, right-to-the-point kind of people: And quite simply, practically, that's what it was good at. Well, of course, planes are, first and foremost, good at flying, but this one was particularly well suited for killing Arabs. It was untraceable on radar, could effectively dodge either a bullet or a missile--while it's own projectiles were effectively unstoppable, and so precise that, according to one Army pilot, they could take out a towelhead without disrupting a hair on his goat's ass (his words, not mine). This was the fear of God, or Allah, or whatever.
Summer in the city. The grid is lit up like a dirty grill, hot and red, caking on the filth and the remnants of last night's meat. It's the weekend, but who cares, we have places to go, the atoms say, stretching apart, thrown together, brushing up against eachother's agendas. A week ago, a crane fell and killed two and we stood on the cool breezy street, talking and complaining to absolute strangers, calling for Mike's resignation, for action, for bureaucratic blood. Now the papers report that a crane operator had been bribed and, so long as the AC works, let's bribe him some more and move, move, keep moving, the city is swell, though it feels like hell.
Perhaps your just genetically destined to be “not too happy, not too sad”…
We recently wrote about this issue at Brain Blogger. Recent studies using twins found that happiness and depression are inheritable and there are genetic links to certain personality traits. Those who are extroverted, open, agreeable and conscientious are more likely to be happy. Those with opposing traits — introversion, disagreeability and neuroticism — are more likely to be depressed.
I would like to read your commentary on our article. Thank you.
Sincerely,
Shaheen
I agree with you that too much emphasis is placed on “finding happiness”. Like it is a location where we will arrive.
To me, happiness is the old “inside job”. It comes from within and does not depend on the externals.
True, life hands us stuff that some may consider bad. But it is one’s perception of the good and bad that makes it so.
Most times, we do not know whether something that happens is a miracle or a tragedy.
I would suggest that one way to increase your state of happiness is to concentrate on the good things in your life. The things for which you are grateful.