It’s Sunday afternoon and the Daytona 500 is on. Brad is out watching it with some buddies up in Baltimore, but Lily asked me to turn it on. She stood for the National Anthem and cheered when the green flag waved signaling the start of the race.
Before he left, Brad had each of us draft some drivers. Whoever’s driver wins gets to pick dinner next weekend. Lily listed her drivers out on the whiteboard. She’s planning to keep track of their track position during the race.
Periodically, she comments about where her favorite drivers are running. I asked her who they are this year now that Jr.’s retired. She has an extensive list: Chase Elliott, Alex Bowman, Danica Patrick, Joey Logano, Kyle Larson, Ryan Blaney, Jimmie Johnson, Martin Truex Jr., Darrell “Bubba” Wallace, A.J. Allmendinger and Kasey Kahne.
I asked her to narrow her list down to her top three picks.
She says they’re Martin Truex Jr., Alex Bowman and Chase Elliott.
Brad would love if I had Lily’s level of devotion to NASCAR, but after years and years of Daytona 500s (probably 12 years by now), I’m still pretty “meh” about the whole thing.
What I do enjoy is seeing Lily and her dad talk shop. How they yell at the screen together and bemoan crashes and cautions. While their enthusiasm isn’t contagious, exactly, their joy is infectious. I love watching them watch racing.
It’s funny, you know, where we find happiness. Or where happiness finds us, rather.
So often, I get stuck in this idea that the best kind of happiness is derived when good things happen to me directly. You know, like sipping the perfect chocolate peanut butter milkshake or putting on the softest pair of pajama pants at the end of the day or receiving an unexpected Valentine from a student I’m teaching. To be sure, those moments bring happiness– I mean, I actually sigh in relief at the end of the day when I change pants, so grateful I am for fleecy, stretchy goodness.
But more and more, I’ve found real joy in indirect happiness. Seeing good things happen to other people. Like a two weeks ago when the Eagles won the Super Bowl and Brad stood in front of the TV dumbstruck.
“That was the Super Bowl, right?” He asked as I went to give him a hug. “They just won the Super Bowl!”
Once reality sunk in, the man grabbed a bottle of Presseco someone had gifted us and ran outside, spraying wine all over the driveway, jumping up and down before running down the sidewalk whooping and periodically making obscene gestures at the Patriots flag flying across the street.
He was just so excited. And while I also hold NASCAR levels of enthusiasm for professional football (OK any football really), I was happy, too. Not just happy for him either. It’s hard to explain, exactly. Just that I felt joy, because he felt joy. And I knew Lily would be joyous when she woke up the next morning.
It happened again yesterday. The girls were out playing in the dusting of snow we were getting and I happened to peek out the window and saw Jovie lying flat on her back with her mouth open and her tongue out, catching snowflakes. Lily was standing doing the same. I ran to get my camera figuring the moment would be fleeting. They stayed this way for several minutes. Snowflakes fell on and around them as they basked in the magic.
I could’ve watched them all day. And not just because for the first time all day, the house was quiet. But because I remember being this kid in the snow and I knew moments like these burrow themselves deep into the recesses of your brain and visit you like old friends as you grow up. It’s as if you get to live in two dimensions- both the child who is completely immersed in the purity of that instant in time and the adult who has that hard-earned awareness that this is life at its most beautiful.
I’ve been thinking about happiness lately. Well, maybe not thinking about it so much as being more aware of it. Happiness and its various accoutrements– things like contentment, satisfaction, peace, goofiness and laughter.
Things that, perhaps as a result of hormones, exhaustion, stress, uncertainty and new routines, have been absent for me for months (and months and months).
Have you ever felt like you’ve forgotten how to laugh? Like, you can force out a giggle on your kid’s behalf or text an LOL that isn’t accompanied by actual laughing out loud, but that deep, rich chuckle that wells up from your belly is lost? That’s how I’ve felt. Sort of hollow in the humor department. Not sure I’d ever find anything really, truly funny again.
When you’re in that place, you’re not even really aware that laughter is missing. I had a vague feeling of maybe being overly serious and morose. Kind of ho-hum about my day-to-day existence. And I grew accustomed to it. Like it was just my new way of being.
That was until I laughed again. Real, actual laughter.
It happened in a totally nondescript, kind of obvious way.
Brad and I decided it was time to catch up on our “Broad City.”
“Broad City,” for those of you who have yet to discover its awesomeness yet, is a show on Comedy Central about two best friends in their mid-20s navigating New York. It was created by and stars comedians Ilana Glazer and Abbi Jacobson. That’s the Wikipedia description.
That description would incorrectly make it seem like “Broad City” is a show my mom could watch without being shocked and appalled. The show is Not Safe for My Mom (NSFMM). Sorry mom. There’s just a little too much pot smoking, profanity, sex, extreme bathroom situations, more pot smoking and absurdity for the likes of my mom. Probably many people’s moms. On the other hand, I’m a mom, and I like it. So, it’s not that it’s not a mom-friendly show. It’s just that it’s not mom friendly for moms who would find a plotline involving a melted dildo distasteful or who would be grossed out by an unflushable turd getting stowed in a shoe.
For serious though, it’s super funny. And smart. And it’s empowering to women. And it’s about female friendship. And I love it and I wish I could be even half of the queen Ilana is.