It’s Friday. This fact is supposed to make me smile. This fact is supposed to add a spring to my step. This fact is supposed to whet my appetite for impending weekend goodies: lazy mornings and picnics in the park and autumn sunshine.

And this particular weekend is a big one. This weekend I am meeting that virtual vixen from Vancouver, Danielle LaPorte of White Hot Truth fame, a wise woman who has mentored me with near-maternal affection. I am not only meeting her, but she will be sitting in my very favorite arm chair, the one the cats and kids have destroyed with claws and crayons. Yes, she will be in my living room, spouting her fountain of wisdom for myself and twenty other lucky souls. So. I am supposed to be happy. Elated. Pumped.

But I’m not exactly. No. Today is one of those slow, soggy, Sunday-esque creatures. I’m not sad. Just mentally sluggish and emotionally ragged. For no good reason. Over the years, I have taught myself how to wade through these odd moments of metaphysical mush by doing things. So here I am doing something. Hurling words at the hazy horizon of the blogosphere, hoping they land on laps of people who care or at least pretend to.

And the good thing is that I have a predetermined subject on Fridays, the Happy Headache (a.k.a. the untimely-given-this-recession-gut-reno of our new place) and just typing those explanatory words makes me feel guilty and spoiled because, well, I am knee-deep in the renovations of a beautiful new home where my family will spend many good days. And that is hardly a tragedy. And it is 10:10 in the morning on a fungible Friday and I am perched on a comfy chair at Starbucks typing away and telling you about it. (Translation: I should be happy. I should not be whining about enigmatic malaise. I should not be experiencing enigmatic malaise.)

But now. Something strikes me. Something becomes clear. Takes shape. Over the past week, I have devoured several articles about happiness. Because I am taking a Positive Psych course and because some of you have generously sent me recent articles on the topic. Maureen Dowd weighed in on the question du jour in her latest Op-Ed Blue Is the New Black. And that question is: Why are we women less happy than we used to be? Why this widespread feminine funk? In many respects, this trend is baffling. Today, thanks to feminism and the struggle of sisters, we women have unparalleled opportunities. We are not circumscribed to certain roles. We have choices.

Choice. That’s it! And here is my theory, no doubt utterly, pathetically unoriginal: We are unhappy because of choice. Choice glitters from afar. It is theoretically majestic. But in practice, choice can be tricky. We often don’t know what to do with it. I’m feeling this (and deeply) vis-a-vis the Happy Headache. I’m feeling this (and deeply) vis-a-vis my life. Marble or corian? Glass or stainless? Light  or dark? Write or frolic or make a phone call? Rejoin the corporate world or continue to flail here in the quasi-literary realm? Should I take a cooking class?

Too much choice is like too much wine; delicious and dizzying and disorienting. And with choice comes the possibility of making the wrong choice. Because some choices are wrong. Sometimes, often, choice is paralyzing. Sometimes, often, we just want to be told what to do.

And yet. Choice is an amazing thing. Perhaps the most amazing thing. Choice is a gorgeous gift I would never return. A ruefully raw blank slate on which we can slap our idiosyncratic paint. Choice is what makes things interesting. Choice is what makes each of us different. Choice is what makes us us. I think Camus had it right when he said, “Life is the sum of all of your choices.”

So, alas, a paradox. The very thing that makes life worth living, that makes life life, can also make life less happy. As Dowd notes, citing a HuffPost blogger, “We’re happy to have our newfound abundance of choices… even if those choices end up making us unhappier.” I told you my thoughts weren’t original.

So. Why? Why am I a bit off today? Why am I spending my time allotted for the Happy Headache talking about happiness and headaches? I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I am building so many things at once (a family, a home, a blog, a book) and building entails choices and decisions and I’m worried about the choices and decisions I’ve made. And the ones I haven’t made. Maybe it’s because ambition is tethered so tightly to anxiety and these things are swallowing me whole.

Or maybe it’s simpler than all this. Maybe it’s because life is like peanut butter. Scrumptious and nutritious. But some days are smooth and some days are chunky. Maybe it’s because today I’m feeling it. The heirloom hegemony of choice, hovering like a saccharine storm cloud above me, aching to burst.

I don’t know. Is this a choice too? Do I choose not to know?

Now I will sign off and take Baby to her gymnastics class. I will hold her tiny hands as she steps across a rainbow trampoline. I will smile at the other mothers. I will search their eyes for that telltale gloomy gloss. I will comb their voices for the vicissitudes that shake me now; the uncertainty, the insecurity, those jagged jewels of choice on which we all choke sometimes.

_______________________________

Why do you think women are getting unhappier with time? Do you agree it has something to do with choice?

Yesterday, ideas were nipping me like magical mosquitoes. Persistent. Pesky. Proud. But today? Not so much. Today is different. Today, I am a bit stuck, lost, paralyzed. Not in a bad way. No. Today, I feel pressure whereas yesterday I felt freedom. Today, I feel overwhelmed whereas yesterday I felt inspired. Today, I feel little whereas yesterday I felt, well, a little less little.

Why?

Yesterday, I wrote a very honest and heartfelt and spontaneous ode to my new friend Nic. I meant every word I typed. And as I typed those words, caffeinated passion pumped through flagging veins. As I typed those words, I felt like I was, however fleetingly, part of something bigger than myself. {And for fellow Happiness Students, Meaning – or feeling like you are part of something larger than yourself – is one of the elements of happiness!} Anyway, I was jazzed yesterday. And even more so when Nic liked what I had to say and then when Nic’s friends liked what I had to say. And then, today, Nic responded to my love letter with one of her own. Thank you, Nic! You make me sound far more amazing than I actually am (I am not yet published!) and for that, there are no words to convey my gratitude.

But now. Here I sit. Again alone. Again at a small table. Today at Starbucks. And it is Friday and for those of you who are new here, (welcome!) today is my day to update you all on the Happy Headache (a.k.a. the untimely-given-this-recession-gut reno of our new place), but for some reason jabbering on and on about construction chaos seems a pinch frivolous. I mean yesterday I was waxing poetic about invisible threads and self-realization and rape and today, I’m going to talk about hardwood floor choices?

Yes. That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Even if it feels a little funky. Wrong. Inappropriate.

Here’s the plan: I’m going to talk about hardwood floors and then I’m going to tell you why I talked about hardwood floors. And if you don’t like this agenda, bye bye. It’s Friday and you should be outside playing anyway.

After much back and forth, many high-octane debates about the virtues of light versus dark, we have decided to go dark. Those of you who have been with me for while might remember that I’ve already written about this. Redundancy. Uh oh. Well, I happen to love redundancy. Once upon a time, we were leaning towards light. I wanted an airy, ethereal, cloud-like foundation for our future home. Architect noted that white floors smack of country/beach homes, but this didn’t dissuade me. A country/beach home in the big city? Genius! But now. Now we like dark. We picked a deep, brooding chocolate brown. A Nietzschian shade. We liked an even darker stain, almost black, but the fact that the sample got scratched over night made us rethink things. Also, black floors plus White Cat is an ugly equation. Okay. Fine. So what?

So. So what is the point here? I’m not sure if there is one. And you know what? That is okay. Sometimes, points are overrated. But now that I think of it, this post has a point, if not a few. Uh oh. Here comes a list. I hate lists.

(1) Minds are meant to be changed. In a few measly months, we went from loving light to loving dark. This is okay. It is okay for us to change our minds about aesthetics and beliefs and desires. As a society, we are so obsessed with consistency. We glorify schedules for our babies and for ourselves. We deplore inconsistency in politicians and in regular people. Maybe, just maybe, flexibility is not a bad thing? You went to law school, but now you don’t want to practice law? You were an insanely private person, but now you thrive on floating personal anecdotes into the world? Yup. We are not robots. We need not program ourselves. We need not heed codes of consistency. We are real people. We are meant to wander, and stumble, and evolve, and change.

(2) Light and dark can (and should) co-exist. It is okay, even healthy, for me to talk about something darker one day and something fluffy and light the next day. Our population is not divided into Serious People and Silly People. No. I think we are too quick to box things up. It’s easier to do this. We crave categorization because it makes navigating the world easier. But you know what? Anderson Cooper doesn’t just wear pinstripes and talk about wars. I once saw him shopping for very fun, hip clothes at Barney’s Co-Op. It is okay to read Plato and get highlights at Oscar Blandi. Hey, it’s even okay to read Plato while getting highlights at Oscar Blandi. It’s okay to talk about sad things and then switch gears and spout joy. This is okay. No one is perfectly happy or perfectly sad. Life should be a tapestry of the silly and the serious.

(3) We should embrace complexity. Have you ever noticed how popular simplicity is these days? How many books and blogs there are telling us to de-clutter our existence, to streamline our selves? Well, I have. They are everywhere. And sometimes if I am being intellectually lazy, the very fact that all these books and blogs exist makes me feel bad about my cluttered, chaotic, chameleon life. But then if I drink a little coffee, I feel better. I wake up. I realize that this need to simplify, taken too far, is perhaps itself a pathology. Because it’s all about complexity. Uncertainty. Insecurity. The commingling of dark and light, black and white. It’s all about those muddled, opaque and gorgeous grays.

What is this post about? Even though I made a trusty little list with comforting bold headings, I’m not so sure. And maybe that bothers you. Maybe you’d prefer a simpler, sleeker, cleverly-packaged commodity here. But that’s not what you’re going to get. In the silence that peppers even the busiest day, I hear voices. They tell me to figure it out. How to present myself. Who are you? they ask. They tell me I will not drive Dooce-style traffic, or gain a massive following, unless I figure out who I am. (For the record, please note that I am not knocking Dooce. That chick has some magical metaphysical mojo and I wish she would share said mojo (and her traffic) with this rookie.) Am I a Mommy Blogger? Or a Personal Development Blogger? Or a Book Blogger?

These questions echo. Waves of confusion buffet me, but then wash away. And I’m left standing there, alone and chilly. And I cringe and laugh and shake. And to these voices, I answer: I am a person. One person. Riddled with doubt. Laced with confidence. Hungry for something else. Something beyond supply and demand. Something beyond popularity and sales. Something bigger than numbers and comments and sweetened praise. Something else.

No more Either Or. These are dangerous words.

Philosopher. Parent. Wife. Sister. Daughter. Friend. Neighbor. Writer. Blogger. Reader. Celebrity-stalker. Coffee-lover. Wine-drinker. Blonde. Serious. Silly. Sad. Happy. Content. Confused. Reaching. Questioning. Answering. Humble. Proud. Lost. Found. Looking forward. Looking back. Looking around. Looking in. Lonely. Surrounded. Young. Old. Girly girl. Tomboy. Scared. Invincible. Nostalgic. Realistic. Spoiled. Conservative. Liberal. Real. Fake. Down to earth. Superficial. Indulgent. Stoic. Sappy. Stormy. Sunny. Cliched. Unique. Painfully insecure. Brilliantly secure. Here. Somewhere else. I’m all of these things. And none of them.

I’m me.

I’m dark. I’m light. I’m youthfully gray.

___________________

First things first, do you have light or dark floors in your home? How have they held up? How do you feel about complexity? Is your life a mixture of dark and light? Are your days gray (in a good way)?

It’s Friday again. Not just any Friday. A big Friday. 9/11.

And I sit here, in my soggy slacks, heart racing, overwhelmed, wondering how to even begin. How do I touch this day, its vast complexity, the impossible memories, the open scars?

I don’t. I won’t. I refuse to try.

Admittedly a cop-out, but I will stick to my schedule and update you on the Happy Headache (a.k.a. the untimely-given-this-recession-gut-renovation of our new place) Yesterday, I met my contractor at a hardware store in midtown to pick doorknobs. I was uncharacteristically decisive, honing on a simple glass doorknob that was shockingly budget-friendly. On the way out of the store, our contractor said we needed to pick hinges too. He showed me a display of various options. He said that each of our doors would have three hinges and that we needed to decide whether or not to add finials to the bottom and top of each. In a moment of un-me-like sensibility, I said that we didn’t need to add decorative touches to our hinges, items people don’t really notice. And he said to me that finials are little things, tiny details, but that they matter. That they affect the feel of a home even if they are not consciously studied or seen. With that, I decided our hinges would have finials. Because the little things matter even if they are often overshadowed by the bigger things.

The little things.

On a day full of big things — the anniversary of national tragedy, Toddler’s first school visit, the funeral of my beloved English teacher Mr. Johnson, I could wax poetic about American pride, and the commencement of a lifetime of education, and the solemn passing of a stellar soul. But I won’t. I will savor the little things.

I will not only remember this as the eighth anniversary of 9/11. I will remember it as another simple and priceless gem on the necklace of life. I will remember drinking coffee with Husband in the morning. Collecting our babies from their cribs. Husband scouring the Internet for Halloween costumes for the girls. The pounding and poetic rain. The trademark tapestry of giggles and tears. The squeaking green boots. The pumpkin orange raincoat. The new school smiles. The sophisticated sipping from the big girl fountain. The celebratory CVS jelly beans. The vast church full of faces. The tears shed and words uttered for a delightfully dapper man who was devoted to literature and bow ties. The crumpled face of a mother who’s lost her son. A beautiful best friend in sweats clutching her sleeping beauty on the eve of her thirtieth birthday. The kind cab driver named Excellent. The bottomless blue eyes of two baby girls waiting for their Mommy to hug them at the end of a long day. The phone call from Husband saying he’s on his way home. The delicious creature sitting on my lap “working” on her plastic laptop as I write this. The sweet smell of her shampoo. Her little legs swinging between mine.

Because it’s the little things, the tiny details, at once mundane and magical, that make up our days. And years. It’s the little things – the hinges on the ever swinging doors of life, the quiet hellos and goodbyes, the mangled umbrellas strewn about city streets, the hugs and kisses and smiles and tears, that comprise life.

Life that can be gone in an instant.

This is a recurrent dilemma in life. In my life at least. And in yours too. You just might not know it yet.

Friday again. Time is zooming by and our future home is taking shape. But to be perfectly honest (and I am all about perfect honesty even though I believe perfection and pure honesty are both myths), I feel as if I am running out of things to talk about vis-a-vis the Happy Headache (i.e. the untimely-given-this-recession-gut-reno of our new place). Yes, things are happening, but nothing earth-shattering or super interesting. Yesterday, we spent a good ten minutes debating whether to install a circle or square drain in the master shower and whether to center the chandelier in the room or across from the fireplace. These are important decisions on some level, but not very interesting to talk about. And here I am talking about them. Go me.

So the pressure was on, is on, to dig deeper and excavate those symbolic and philosophic layers of our home renovation. Because I know they are there. I know that this transformation is not all about sheetrock and lighting. I know that this transformation is as much about me and who I am and what I want and what I don’t. And, for better or worse, because I am an infinitely complicated creature I knew something would come to me. Something a pinch more interesting than square versus circle and debates about chandelier locale. Something would come.

And it did! I was getting a manicure. Yes, indulgent. (Something I should not talk about on a blog like, say, slipping a stranger a twenty for air.) Yes. But in case you missed the memo, I have a party tonight. A very important party with very important and very cool kids. And I am more than happy to shop in my own closet for this party (not really, but I’m being a good sport about it), but I figured, hey, I should at least have some good nails. Because if I remember anything about college kids, it’s that they are obsessed with cuticles. Right. So I walked into Pinky and instead of grabbing for my old standby #162 Ballet Slippers, I took a moment and surveyed my options. And then I chuckled a rebellious chuckle and went for a different pink. Fluorescent pink. I think it was called Short Shorts or something equally alarming. I held the little bright bottle up and I said “this is it!”

The nice lady humored me. Together, we sat. She went to work on my ragged mommy nails. And I studied that little bottle awaiting its fate, that bold and bodacious Barbie pink. And as time passed and my nails grew more beautiful, I had a minor change of heart. In a soft, apologetic voice, I said to the nice lady, “I changed my mind. Ballet Slippers, please.” And she looked at me and nodded and then laughed. At me. Or with me, I don’t know. “It’s fun, but I’m not fourteen.” She laughed some more. Because I’m very funny. Very.

Fast forward twenty minutes. My nails were beautiful. And boring. Yay. As I left the Pinky, I looked back at that ferocious fuschia and wondered if I had chosen the wrong pinky? Who knows. Who cares? Honestly, this is an embarrassingly indulgent quandary I probably shouldn’t publish. That would be the safe thing to do. BUT.

But I am sick of safe. I want color and boldness and risk. So, yes, there is a point. That point? Hmmm. In life, there will invariably be at least two choices – bold or bland. Sizzling or safe. And sometimes safe is the way to go. We shouldn’t pick the most fun looking car seat or the man who thinks jobs are for losers or the home with poor structure. There are times when the safe choice is the right choice. BUT.

When the safe choice is not the obvious right choice, I think we should go sizzling. Live a little. In our new home, we are going to blanket one wall in jungle wallpaper and another in enormous pineapples. We are going to paint our living room marigold and hang a feather ball fixture. We are in the process of picking a dining table. Will it be the more prudent black lacquer or an oval slab of glass balanced on two vintage horse heads? I’m thinking horse heads (as long as they are safe for the kiddos!)

Oh and because I know you would lose sleep over the aforementioned dilemma, we opted for a square drain. At first we floated around in our Yuppie pool of banal indecision. But then the contractor said in a whisper, “Round is predictable. Square is cooler.” A no-brainer indeed!

We each have one life. So let’s live it. Let’s make it sizzle.

(Coming from the daredevil chick who lives one block from her childhood home, went to law school because it seemed prudent, and is scared of flying and skiing and taking the subway.)

__________

Is your life more sizzling or safe? Would you add more sizzle if you could?

Friday again. Time for my weekly update on the Happy Headache (a.k.a. the untimely-given-this-recession-gut-reno of our new place). This week, as you might have guessed from the above glorious pic, I’m talking tubs.

I’ve never been a big bath person. I’ve always been a loyal fan of the quick and efficient shower. We’ve been in our current apartment for five years and I think I’ve taken all of one bath. Pretty pathetic. These days, we have a good excuse though. We are parents now. Busy people. Baths, like so many other things, seem like indulgences, time sucks. Plus, our one tub is currently filled with a rainbow medley of baby bath toys, foam letters, empty bottles of bubble bath. On one end, there’s a little bath ring suctioned to the basin, so little Baby won’t topple over. In our home, bath time is for the girls.

But now. We are afforded that fabled fresh start. We are knee-deep in creating a new home for ourselves. And maybe a new way of doing things? Yesterday, Husband and I attended our weekly meeting at the job site. We plowed through the week’s list of tiny, but vital, details. We chatted about carbon monoxide detectors. We debated gas vs. electric. We bantered about HVAC. And then we did our walk-through.

We walked into the area that will one day be the master bath. In the center of the soon-to-be room was a massive cardboard box. Husband and I took a peek. There it was. Our tub. Sleek and white and very adult. Not the kind of tub you’d toss kids or rubber duckies into. Our tub. (Yes, the beautiful one up there!) I studied it. Its sleek lines and quiet promise. And it wasn’t hard to imagine it fixed to our floor, standing freely, waiting for human contact. And, again, this was a moment that made this all wonderfully real. There is a tub, a real tub, in our new place!

But I wonder whether we will use it. Whether I will. Whether, after years of efficiency and bath toys and bubbles, I will press that proverbial pause button, soak it all up, and savor bath time once more?

Are you a bath person or shower person?  Why? Have you always been this way?