Still Joy

After devouring Gretchen Rubin's book The Happiness Project (in which she goes on a year long quest to be happier), I've been wondering what it actually means to be happy. It's a goal that all of us aim for, even as some are masked by teenage, nihilistic reveling in pain. But how do we measure our joy? How can something we can't see, and are sometimes fooled by not feeling, be an ultimate goal?
Rubin tracks her happiness by how often she contributes to the greater good, how many friends she can lean on for support, and how often she cleans. Clearly the woman is sent from the heavens, because all of these things involve scheduling, planning, and wearing something other than sweats and a hoodie while doing so. And in such times of stress, I end up looking like a swarm of moon craters have landed on my face. Volunteering and friendships certainly do have their places in my life, but an endless throng of obligations makes me want to drown my sorrows in a vanilla chai latte and a romantic comedy. Maybe cry on a friend's shoulder or two.
I used to compare my joy to how much I talked, and how others reacted to me. The after-guilt of "over-eager puppy" syndrome didn't seem to play into the equation. After all, if I didn't voice my opinions and state my presence repeatedly, wouldn't people forget I existed completely? Having something to say has always been a struggle for me; I can easily blend into a group of people and simply watch their dynamics. So to compensate, I've ranted about my hair, the weather, and other people more times than Brad and Angelina have adopted babies. My friends and family may not have forgotten about me, but they probably also wanted to smack me over the head with a frying pan.
It wasn't until the senior prom that I realized what my happiness really means to me. There I was, in my aggressively anti-prom earrings and dress, unable to talk to those even two feet away from me. At first, it was frustrating having to interact with friends only by eye contact and hand gestures. It's quite difficult to tell someone her dress is adorable with my hands and a myriad of facial expressions that made me look like I was on crack. But after hours of not talking, and just, well, being, I saw how much of a relief it was not to feel pressured to be comic relief, or the "dumb blond." I could be with a group who genuinely liked me, without having to prove how entertaining I was. I could laugh at two of my best friends getting down on the dance floor, without the pervading thought that I wasn't included. The joy from watching isn't anti-social, or rude; it's just different.
Since then, some of my happiest moments have come from quiet. I've sensed the most love from reading in the living room with my dad, or going to meditation classes with friends. I embrace my own idea of joy, while still having those days of excitement and rants about absolutely nothing. I haven't turned into a totally mute person--the only difference is that my spastic moments and bursts of energy aren't forced. There's still joy in me.