IF THERE'S one generalisation you can safely make about the here and now, it's that more is going wrong than right. Yet despite – or perhaps because – of this objectionable fact, it feels as though more ink has been spilled on the subject of happiness than in any other era I can recall, including the hedonic Sixties. Back then the stories were prescriptive: Tune in, turn on, drop out – Bob's your uncle. (Don't you miss those simpler times?)
Next came Seventies' navel-gazing, which catalysed the self-help industry (in itself happiness-making for all those cod gurus giddily filling out deposit slips at Swiss bank counters). My personal excuse is that I was a teenager then. If you can't fl
ail about shouting: "Who am I? What is the meaning of life?" while in the throes of adolescence, well when can you?
This marked the beginning of a terrible misunderstanding in which we took that bit in the Declaration of Independence, "the pursuit of happiness", as a mandate. Like all demented American lifestyle trends, the concept migrated over here, blown by ocean breezes or carried, like pollen, on the clothes of us incomers. Now everyone's wandering around fumbling for their pleasure pulse. Do I feel anything? Is it thready or steady? Does anyone know happiness CPR?
The answer to that is children and those over 44 years of age, according to a multinational study conducted by researchers on both sides of the pond. Now, I've always envied cheery children. I was deeply miserable at the time, convinced I'd be happier as a grown-up. Despite everything (or again, perhaps because of it), it has proven true.
And because I'm nothing if not zeitgeisty, it transpires that this very week, spent in London chasing interviews with which to regale you, dear Scotsman stalwarts, I was chatting about this very topic with a pal. Neither of us has ideal circumstances, but we're much more aware of little moments of happiness than ever, and make a point of stopping to pay them homage with a nod of acknowledgment.
I'd felt it earlier that day, rounding a bend en route to the Picadilly line. With plenty of time to travel, I wasn't rushed. No part of my body hurt. I had money in my wallet. I was meeting someone new and potentially interesting. Not very glamorous, is it? Yet I felt my chest open, my heart expand, and a crystalline momentary bliss descend.
The reason people my age are happy, I suspect, is that we finally recognise what we're looking at. When younger, I equated happiness with ecstasy and euphoria. Anything less didn't count. "Wow!" is great. I love wow. But there's also "Mmm". Happiness no less potent for registering at a lower volume.
Past age 44, we bear scars from being wrung through the mill repeatedly, and have borne witness to decades of world tragedies. So we know unhappiness well and have, as the researchers surmised, learned the fine art of counting our blessings. While I agree with this conclusion, I'd be happier if someone could find a way to make it sound less mawkish and more noble, for it's a gruelling learning curve!
The full article contains 541 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
