THE OLDER, THE HAPPIER
When I walked into a place, I even paid attention to whether my hand was casually enough in the pocket of my jeans and whether I wasn't heading too quickly or too slowly towards my group of girlfriends. Meet my younger self, about fifteen years ago. Even though everyone said I was a confident lady, I was just pretending and it was all an attempt at a polished exterior.
And now I am double in years and half in insecurity. Yes, I still sometimes shrink back because I don't know what to do with my limbs, but it is extremely reduced. Just like the blind panic over an outfit for a hip and happening party or pondering whether people find me nice or likable enough. I occasionally hop with the drops on my forehead from my wardrobe to the mirror and back again. Dark blue dress off, silver sequin top and great trousers on, hop, off again. But not even five years ago, I was still struggling like an idiot with all that fuss, for nights on end, until the big event. Now I stop after half an hour because it doesn't make me a happier person and it does weird things to your hair. What makes me happy? Watching an episode of Modern Family in sweatpants with my boyfriend. And that's what I do, because I now know that it will be that black jumpsuit at the end of the dressing-up fest. The older, the crazier, right? Well, make that the older, the happier, because that's really me.
Dark blue dress off, silver sequin top and great trousers on, hop, off again
When you're older, it seems like things align more in order of importance. Yes, of course, you get a big grin when someone tells you how sweet you are, but you're not lost if you hear through the grapevine that that distant and especially vague colleague thinks you're just okay. Because, what does it matter? Your old familiar crew of girlfriends is much more important and they will honestly tell you without embellishment what you are, whether you want to hear it or not. Just like your beloved, by the way, the chance gets smaller with each passing year that he packs his bags with much fanfare during your legendary morning grumpiness. Oh, and you get crazier a thousand percent too. Or is that sentence conceived by ignorant murmurs who deeply, deeply, deeply shame a mother who swirls through her terraced house living room with red-wine-stained teeth? I think so, but bet that she is happier than her daughter who presses a pillow against her face out of shame?
And I have ecstatic news for you and for myself. I dove into the archives and what turns out? When you blow out forty candles, you only become happier afterwards, says a study from the University of California. And I thought happiness was already taking on more serious forms. Apparently not. Bring on that little wrinkle and those reading glasses, I can't wait. Or well, in a manner of speaking.
