Dear Kate,
How are you? Your last letter made me sad. Does your new apartment in Palo Alto have a bathtub? A nice cry in the bathtub always helps me.
Nothing like crying in the tub for real self-pity, nothing like the moment when every last bit of you is wet, and wiping the tears from your eyes only means making your face even wetter.
Nora Ephron wrote that. She’s always right.
This week, I’ve been thinking about happiness. We used to have it, right? I distinctly remember being cheerful. Where did it go?
There are still quick hits of joy. For example, I like to stalk the NYT’s Donald G. McNeil Jr. I love Donald. Donald does not indulge Michael Barbaro’s attempts at humor on “The Daily.” Donald does not indulge undue optimism. Donald does not kid, Donald does not joke. Donald tells the truth. Sometimes he does it in this sporty sweater. Donald has reported on disease from sixty countries. He’s been preparing for this story since 1995. Mark Thompson, the outgoing CEO of the NYT, calls Donald G. McNeil Jr. directly for information.
What else? Donald plays softball. Donald likes to go trout fishing. Donald wrote this dry, lovable essay about quail hunting. I am obsessed. I sleep better at night knowing that Donald—who started at the NYT in 1976 as an earnest copy boy—is on the case. (Last one: did you know Donald was also a theater critic?!?! I could literally do this all day.)
But is this happiness? No. It's a distraction.
We distract ourselves with lots of things to feel happy. Netflix. Expensive candles. An unending search for the perfect flavor of sparkling water. High-rise bike shorts. (They are out of stock everywhere and this is the reason I am grumpy, I am sure.)
Distractions are quick dopamine hits. Like any addiction, the hits need to keep coming for the high to last.
“More, more, more. I need more.”
If one hour of googling Donald G. McNeil Jr. is fun, two is better. If one scented candle is relaxing, two is downright luxurious. If a good skincare routine has 5 steps, a great skincare routine has 12 steps. It’s endless. That’s what makes a compelling distraction. It feels like doing more could be more beneficial.
I always get the chills at this passage from David Foster Wallace’s essay “Shipping Out.” Wallace takes a 7-day cruise and he’s inundated with every conceivable pleasure. Unlimited buffets. Fresh towels. Shuffleboard. Soft serve. It’s all at his fingertips. It’s the “more, more, more” dream come true. Be happy buddy! Eat a crab claw! They’re free!
And yet…
There's something about a mass-market Luxury Cruise that's unbearably sad. Like most unbearably sad things, it seems incredibly elusive and complex in its causes yet simple in its effect: on board the Nadir (especially at night, when all the ship's structured fun and reassurances and gaiety ceased) I felt despair…. It's like wanting to die in order to escape the unbearable sadness of knowing I'm small and weak and selfish and going, without doubt, to die.
The author R.O. Kwon really gets to the heart of the matter with this tweet.
Distractions feel good. But they don’t fix anything. They just waste time.
This is a moment to reconsider our distractions.
The performance of happiness is gone. “I had the best time at SoulCycle!” is gone. “I really discovered myself in Bali” is gone. Jobs are gone. Identities are gone. Status is gone. No one cares if you are wearing designer bike shorts. Or pants at all. Anything is fine!
So what can we do with all that time instead? We can call our neighbors. We can go for a walk. We can make waffles with our mom. We can ask our grandparents questions: “What was it like when you were 25?” “Were you happy?” “Why?”
I bet their answers won’t have a single thing to do with bike shorts.
My book pick:
This week, I’ve fallen in love. With Nora Ephron. How did I wait this long? I picked up a copy of Heartburn, a lighthearted little novel about a cookbook author whose husband is having an affair. I bought it this week because I needed a pick-me-up. (Distractions!!!!!!!)
It was a great choice: quick, comforting, and packed with insight about the subtle ways we fool ourselves. Nora’s writing is also impeccable, so technically I was not wasting time: I was “honing my craft” as a writer.
The book: Heartburn
My rating: ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ (five out of five)
Read more: “A Few Words About Breasts” by Nora Ephron, Esquire, 1972
XOXO,
Ali