"Are you happy?"
It's probably the most personal question one can ask. That I can think of, at least. More than, "How much do you weigh?" Or, "What's your favorite song?" Or, "Are you with the one single person in the world who fills your heart with joy?"
When she asked, I joked, because what else do you do when you're asked the most personal question of all? You deflect. Really, it was too easy. She being the almost-graduated graduate therapist, best friend of six years, roommate of three, carrier of your best college memories. Here she is, asking you about your happiness over eggs and orange juice.
"Stop therapizing me, Bod."
But she wanted to know, and so I told her. Because who else will I tell? Because is it really so bad to admit to being wildly happy or down down down and out? There's nothing wrong with being personal, after all.
We talked about everything and nothing, the way we always do. The way I always seem to do. About school, and ambition, and moving. About the places we've been to and have not. About the cities we'll live in and will not. About our friends. About their lives and their happy. About companionship and marriage. About futures and faith.
It seems like a lot, but I imagine that it sounds familiar to you too.
I told her that, yes, I am happy. But now, and here, I want to clarify:
I am happy. Not content. Not at all, really.
Which means that I am not final happy
or end-game happy
or nothing-needs-to-or-should-change happy.
I am happy-along-the-way. I am waiting. And doing stuff while I wait that negates the waiting, I hope.
Does that make sense?
I feel like I've written this before.
The eggs were good.
Anyway, that's what I told her when she asked.