Pan-Fried Chicken Strips and the Power of Words

A few nights ago I was making dinner for myself; as I laid my first flour and breadcrumb coated strip in the pan I thought: this makes me happier than it shou—WAIT! WHAT???

I've always been the excitable one, the one who squeals and claps and does actual happy dances at relatively tiny things. Ask anyone who spent any amount of time with me during my tweens and they'll tell you: a song by The Monkees had the potential to cause a commotion if it played over the speakers in a restaurant or store. So it's no surprise that I've gotten used to hearing variations of the phrase "you are waaaaaaaaay too excited" ("Oh my gawd, you're such a kid!" "Calm the *frak down!" "You're how old?!") over the years. 

Things haven't changed much...except that somewhere along the way I internalized this strange qualifier for my happiness. You see, the phrase "this makes me happier than it should"  tromps its way through my mind quite often. I giggle like a child while watching Eureka and immediately think: this makes me happier than it should. I sing with wild abandon to a Mumford and Sons song, but between "keep the earth below my feet" and "let me learn from where I have been," my mind adds an additional line: this makes me happier than it should. Sitting on my couch reading a book, having drinks with friends, taking bubble baths, putting away dishes, catching snowflakes on my tongue...and BAM: this makes me happier than it should.

But it wasn't until that night with the sticky eggy flour clinging to my fingers and the oil sizzling wildly that I realized just what it meant.

It's as if I believed that there was a finite amount of happiness in the world. That each of us was allotted so many happypoints to use over the course of our lifetime. I had the idea that one day I'd be turned away because I'd already used my happypoints on the cheap plastic ring and an armful of stuffed animals that would disintegrate within a week.

He reminds me of Santa Clause...the Santa you see on vintage Coke ads and puzzles. The same kind eyes, the same pudgy face, the same gentle touch...the same sadness and disappointment when he is forced to place coal into a stocking when all he wants is to give you everything you could ever want. 

But he is the Santa Clause for grown-ups. 

"I'm so sorry," (I can see the tears glistening in his blue eyes) "but I can't let you have this." He flips the little card over, hiding the image of the beautiful smiling family and pointing towards the numbers firmly printed into the back. "See? See here? It says you must have 395 happypoints to retrieve this experience. You only have 326." 

But it doesn't work that way. No ticketmaster-suited Santa Clause is ever going to tell me I can't experience the joy of having a family because I used up my happypoints on chicken strips and  Monkees songs.

It makes me sad that I have burned words into my mind that only renforce these bizzarre fears... "This makes me happier than it should." Only seven words...But repeated often enough that they allowed me to build up a crazy scary lonely world where choosing happiness at one point meant depriving myself of happiness at another...

I am glad, however, that I finally realized the power these words had over me. I am glad that I can make the choice to banish them from my mental vocabulary. Instead of worrying about the appropriate level of happiness while cooking or singing or geocaching or reading or any of the other countless instances that I encounter each day that bring me joy, I want to live in that state of happiness...experience it...let it grow...to truly appreciate how lucky I am that I can find happiness in these little moments of my life.