20 little things that make us happy
Emilie is on a break from her therapist. Let’s see how that goes, shall we? Annabel is finding that her vicious impatience is eating her soul. Even so, why won’t people hurry up? We teeter on the ledge with a plodding regularity. But one key to survival is surely an ability to access tiny pockets of joy. Fifteen minutes of fame? Keep them. Fifteen minutes of joy? Absolutely.
Some people meditate, and that is noble. Others ‘journal’ (why is that now a verb?) or write gratitude lists. But what about bringing yourself back to yourself through the mundane? We are not talking about life-changing epiphanies or even good habits.
We are not talking about standing in front of the mirror and intoning, ‘The universe will bring me what I need, for I am loving and lovable,’ hoping to carve new neural pathways. We are not saying this is about Big Joy. It’s about small moments that make us feel fortunate. Here’s how we find them.
Smiling at strangers. You really have to fake this one if you’re a beginner because it’s terrifying. But then it gets cosy. And you start looking at people rather than swerving them.
Online quizzes. What is your elf name? Your rapper name? Which Disney princess’s horse are you?
Opening the linen cupboard and staring at piles of bedding. Just knowing it’s there makes us feel secure.
Noise-cancelling headphones. Ah, the gift of silence.
Wearing improbably lurid lipstick around the house. Every time we catch sight of that vivid purple in the mirror we feel like a six-year-old.
Blasting hip-hop really loud, which gives us the sense that we’re hand- ling everything.
Putting on vast knickers. Makes us feel safe.
Meandering around the haberdashery department of John Lewis, fingering thimbles and interfacing. Nothing bad can happen here. John Betjeman knows best.
Wearing fingerless gloves indoors and pretending to be a beatnik poet in a drafty attic with many lovers and a cult following.
Answering the phone with ‘yo’. Why is this so cheering? Perhaps because it’s tragic, but we are too old to care.
Toast – very buttery. Made with slightly posh bread. We laugh at those artisanal- bread shops, but…
Getting in a black cab. A bit like getting on a private plane these days. Makes us feel rich.
Watching 15 minutes of the films that made us who we are. The Breakfast Club, When Harry Met Sally, Some Like It Hot, Hello, Dolly!. But not Terms of Endearment. Never Terms of Endearment. That is an act of self-harm.
Using posh cutlery or having a glass of wine at home out of one of the crystal glasses, or whacking out a linen napkin rather than kitchen roll. Wining and dining ourselves, basically.
Finally taking those bin bags (full of clean, ironed clothes) to the charity shop. They’ve been on the landing for six months. Now, clear landing, slightly less murky conscience.
Ordering a good supply of something very basic like Scotch tape or Blu-Tack, or a new potato peeler. That sense of achievement for a couple of quid.
Turning off the tap when brushing our teeth and feeling that we are saving the world.
Reading a novel. Diving into someone else’s world. (Currently, Manhattan Beach by Jennifer Egan.)
Pouring half a sack of Epsom salts into the bath. That rushing sound. The prospect of a full magnesium infusion. Will it help us sleep?
Popping to the car wash. So swishy. And womb-y. And who doesn’t love a gleaming hubcap?
