Returning from a networking event that filled me with excitement and an accelerated drive, I found myself cursing the cursor blinking in front of me. I didn’t know what to write – and that’s a big problem.
As an editor – a young one at that – it is part of my job responsibility to have fresh, modern ideas. I’m supposed to produce proposals that knock the stilettos off of editors two to 20 years my senior. These angles, these formulas, these stories are all brewing inside of me, prepared to burst at the printers of the glossies I’ve always imagined seeing my byline in.
So why is it, that when I sit down to write this blog, which historically has taken me maybe half-an-hour to write, I find myself lost for words? Dried up of stimulation to string together words discussing my love life or my views toward sex, relationships, and all that romantic jazz that causes so many stumbles?
I mean, what’s wrong with me?
Concerned by my inability to do what I’ve always considered my best ability, I called out to Mr. Possibility, who was aimlessly working on a project that’s kept him occupied for weeks. As he usually does, he listened to my frustrations and cautiously tried to hide the smirk painting itself across his chiseled jaw. In desperation I exclaimed, “I have to write! This is what I do. I don’t ever get writer’s block, what’s going on with me? I’m not losing it, am I?”
Wrapping his arms around me and greeting the top of my head with his lips, he asked, “Linds, do you ever think that maybe, you’re just happy? And that’s your problem?”
Hmm. Perhaps that could be possible, Mr. Possibility.
Writing about the trials of being single, how difficult it is to keep your self-confidence at a somewhat high, and learning to love yourself is easy to do when you’re sad. When everything in the world seems to be crashing down or you’re afraid of the walls you’ve built losing their durability against charming men with dimples – sentiments and thoughts flow freely. When a guy is more of a jerk than a gentleman, when a man would rather bone you than phone you, or when Facebook or a friend or a fan reveals something about a someone that makes you reconsider the prospect of “someday” with them – blogs are easy to devise.
But what happens when drama stops dazzling your mind? When complications become uncomplicated? When the road-less-traveled branches off to easy street? When there isn’t anything wrong, yet anything that’s superbly outstanding – but you just find yourself content? If lack of tragedy or anxiety in my dating life or any other facet, causes me to wonder what to write about – does that mean I need to be challenged to be inspired?
Could I be a drama queen and never knew it?
I’m still single, but seeing someone pretty regularly. I’m not overly satisfied with the way I look, but I’ve made an effort to focus on what makes me beautiful, without touching up my makeup hourly in the mirror. I’m not lacking a desire for a mate, but if something were to happen, if things were to fall apart, I have no doubt I’d be able to find my footing. Would I be hurt? Of course. But am I stronger than I was six months ago? Absolutely.
My career is on the track I hoped it would be at this time, and my nights are spent searching and prospecting for the next address I’ll call home. I’ve saved enough money to take an international trip this summer and while my run time isn’t at its peak, it is still strong. I can’t remember the last time I cried or obsessively asked my friends for advice or downed a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.
Really, Mr. Possibility is right: I am happy. Perhaps I should knock on some wood for even claiming this right, but it’s the truth.
So maybe I cross a different fork in my journey to self-love: what do you do when everything is fine? When you’re satisfied in your singleness, mostly unafraid of the prospect of a possibility, and secure in the life you’ve created for yourself? Happiness is usually temporary, but when you’re submerged in the oasis it creates, how do you relish without resting in the reassurance? How do I let myself let go of the notion that to write, to be a 20-something, single-something, I have to be upset? Can’t I hold those titles and be pleased?
Maybe drama is easier to portray because when we’re disappointed or aggravated, we feel justified in complaining. We know dozens of people who share our craziness, who approach relationships and love with the same exhaustion, so spewing out the strife of struggles seems natural. But having the bravery to say, “No, really. I’m fine. I’m happy!” – seems like bragging or boasting when we know so many are not at the point in their lives where they want to be. Or able to reach a point of contentment that we have.
Or perhaps we get used to focusing on the bad, instead of the good. Pain is sharper than the warmth of joy. Being depressed seems less risky than imagining the opportunities that could lay in the horizon. Trouble brews and boils easier than the art of just living our lives.
I can’t say how long this bliss will last or determine where it stems from. I can’t say I don’t wonder if it’ll all blow up in my pretty little face tomorrow. But that’s the trouble with happy – if you don’t enjoy it while you have it, then you never should have had it to begin with. So instead of analyzing it or wondering how long it’ll last or preparing myself for the discovery that I’m simply chasing pavement –I’m going to try living. Try being thankful and counting my lucky stars.
And maybe, writing about what it feels like to just be…happy.