Pleasantly Pleased, In spite

Just a brief look at what it means to be happy, no matter the terror of uncertainty, no matter the displeasure of life. Because there is joy. Sometimes.

It's all a game, I tell myself over and again. The worst game I've ever played, sure, but a game nonetheless. And if the reward is just more time in the game, then at least I've got more time in general. That has to be enough, right? Why can't that be enough?

Everywhere I look are people who, if I knew anything about reading expressions, I might think were unhappy. Men, women, demimen, demiwomen, genderqueer and genderfluid folks, agender folks, and much more. All of them miserable, at least as miserable as myself. Not one of them capable of joy beyond the moment their first sip of coffee hits or the second the workday closes.

That's not to say I'm happy by comparison. I'm not. Happiness is for children and fortunate souls never forced into The Game. The only thing that brings me joy is the comfort of my wife's embrace. And for the time we're together, I find myself overwhelmingly pleased to be alive.

Which is to say, I'm happy. I suppose.

No but genuinely. Her joy and mine are intertwined. Some might call it codependent. I call it well-matched. She's a summer breeze, a June rainshower. I'm an autumn sun, an October chill. We complement each other, and she is my eternal joy.

So I go to my corporate hellscape. I play the game. I don't lose. Losing is the only thing I'm not allowed. And then I come home. I allow myself to be engulfed in her presence. And for a while, we find comfort. Safety. And excitement!