How am I? Oh, you know. Could be better? Mustn’t grumble. That’s how
most of us trudge through life, isn’t it? Notwithstanding episodes of genuine
sadness, most of us, most of the time, potter around in the middle ground
between not-too-bad and been-better.
Well, I’ve had enough. In these doom days of
recession, I’m mounting a happiness campaign. Prime Minister David Cameron is
keen to promote General Wellbeing (GWB) over GDP as an indication of the state
of the nation. Jessie J. keeps telling us it’s not about the price tag. Krug
champagne has even hosted a bubbly “Happiness Exhibition”, curated by Amanda
Harlech. Could it be that we’re ready to draw our attention away from money and
on to something sunnier? For an entire week, I aim to bask in the glory of life
and discover whatever happiness is simply a matter of attitude. Now, wipe that
disbelieving smirk off your face, you kill joy, and strap on a smile.
Smile more
Actually, smiling is my first task of the week. Scientists believe
facial expressions can affect mood; one study has shown that if you hold a
pencil between your teeth – causing your mouth to approximate a smile – you’ll
find cartoons funnier. I start my challenge at London’s Victoria Station, where
an unscientific observation has shown that there are fewer smiles per face than
anywhere else on the planet.
Everyone is in a
hurry or angry or both, and the bus drivers are the very distillation of all
that is miserable. I get on a Number 73 and offer an ear-to-ear grin to the
driver. He doesn’t look up, but emits a low growl, like an Orc of Mordor.
Undaunted, I smile at all the passengers. They look at their feet. I think
they’re worried I might busk.
HAPPINESS
LEVEL.Diminished.
Follow an American guru’s advice #1.
Back home, I log on to US author Gretchen Rubin’s “The Happiness
Project”, which charts her year-long journey to joy. Boy, this woman is happy.
She leaks happiness, right here, all over her blog. Reading it, you feel as
though a cheerleader has climbed inside your head to wave glitter pom-poms and
shout, “You go, girl!” into your soul. This is not the British way. While
Americans endlessly make lemonade from lemons, we Brits are more reserved. We
rain on parades, or at least worry about the cost and whether there are enough
loos. Rather than tickertape explosions of glee, we prefer low key expressions
of happiness. Perhaps a party popper or an amusing tea towel.
Rubin, who
provides her reader with regular tips on happiness has come up with a jaunty
series of tasks, and the first to catch my eyes is, “Think about yourself in
the third person.” Her reasoning is that, by framing questions “from outside
yourself”, you will make more objective decisions about what’s best for you.
Hmm. Mimi is not
sure this will work. Mimi feels that people may not respond positively to
third-person speech. But it appears to work for Rubin. Asking herself, “What is
the best medicine for Gretchen when she feels drained?” seems to help her
realise that she needs to spend the weekend resting. Other examples include
saying to herself, or to anyone idiotic enough to be standing close by,
“Gretchen gets frantic when she’s hungry, so she can’t wait too long for
dinner.” “Gretchen needs quiet time each day.” “Gretchen feels the cold, so she
can’t be outside too long.” Gretchen sounds like a Chihuahua.
Mimi thinks this
is a bunch of baloney. But she tries it later that night, over supper: “Mimi is
wondering whether you want any more mashed potato.” Husband looks blankly at
Mimi: “Is Mimi feeling quite well? “Mimi is happy, as it happens, thank you.
But she needs some quiet time each day.” Husband leaves the table. I get some
quiet time to do the washing-up.
Follow an American guru’s advice #2
Rubin must have
been offered “happiness guru’s status for a reason, so I try one more tip. This
time, I go with the “you’re-my-friend-from-camp!” technique, which is designed
to engendered warn relations with strangers and involves imagining that every
person you meet that someone you’ve known for years. It kind of makes sense.
Too few of us bother to talk to strangers these days, but most fellow humans
have a story to tell or a snack to share. Don’t they?
So, I’m in the
Co-op, buying cheddar and Domestos. “Hey, Joan,” I say to the check-out lady,
zapping her with a dazzling smile, having cleverly noticed the name badge
dangling from her left breast. “Joan! How have you been seen…”I stop, as I‘ve
never met Joan before and have no back story to colour her in. “Well, since,
well since New Year?” We all had one of those, right? “Erm,” says Joan. “Have
you got a Co-op card?” No I do not. Deflated, I tap in my pin, pat Joan on the
sleeve and leave.
Outside, I buy a
Big Issue from a seller and his dog on a rope. “Hello Dog!” I chirrup,
smiling like mad. “Still loving those bones? How’s the rope working for ya?”
The seller asks me to move along.
