The Unhappy Happy

(by Jeffrey Cranor)

I’m on vacation in Belize this week. Never been here before. It’s beautiful. The food is great. The people are even better. I got to swim with nurse sharks and eagle rays. I met an agouti named Agnetha. I went rum-tasting. I read a book on a beach. I did that latter activity a LOT, and I loved it.

That said, there are always complaints, little nits to pick. I’ll tell them to you here, but know that this is anecdotal support for my theme here. I’m not mad about any of this. First, the resort I’m staying in doesn’t have any dairy for coffee. Just the powdered stuff. Also, one of the selling points of this place was that had a fancy cocktail bar. But that bar is closed for renovations. I’ve had people make me nice drinks at the pool-side bar, but I’m sad I didn’t get my one night to go have a Oaxaca Old-Fashioned on a balcony overlooking the Gulf.

There it is. Stuff that mildly annoyed me in paradise. That’s the complete list.

Actually, wait. There's one more bad thing here: The Unhappy Happy. You know these people. They’re everywhere, from a rainy sidewalk in the East Village to a sunny beach in Placencia. These are the people who define themselves by things they do not like. They’re everywhere, and there’s nothing these people love more than to go on holiday.

I ran into the Unhappy Happy (I define this as people whose happiness is predicated on disseminating unhappiness) on my flight to Belize. I’m waiting for my plane in Atlanta to board, and a 50-something white dude in shorts, tropical shirt and sunglasses comes up to me and says “I hate this fucking airport.” He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t look sad. He looks pleased with himself for having such an astute POV.

“I’ve been in a lot of airports, and Atlanta is truly the worst,” he continues. “I had to go from gate A4 all the way to the train to get down here to E32. Like the two farthest points away. It’s awful. People had no idea what they were doing.”

All I could say was: “Well, we both made it our flight. And I bet we won’t think about the Atlanta airport a single time in Belize.”

He quickly replied: “Oh I will. I have to fly back through this dump.”

On my way to my seat, I saw that he was sitting in first class.

I’ve said this many times before, but it is harder to be FOR something than to be AGAINST something. To talk about how much you love a thing is to make you vulnerable to critique. If you’re on the affirmative, people will remind you that that musician is problematic, or that movie is too violent, or that food is too fattening, or a paradise vacation is always undermined by Big Airline.

A much easier position is to always take the negative. This resort has a lot of likeable things to it: the view, the staff, the food, the location, the comfort. These are all pretty standard qualities of a resort, so to tell you I love those attributes is to tell you how uninteresting I truly am. It’s like saying “I think The Godfather is one of the best movies of all time.” Boring! Actually, that resort isn’t all that great, because they use non-dairy creamer instead of actual milk in their coffee! The Godfather isn’t even the best movie the year it came out (See Cabaret or The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie). It’s over-long and filled with stale patriarchal tropes.

The scientific method is about disproving one’s own hypotheses. A scientist don’t really prove that something is CORRECT, so much as show that every other possibility is INCORRECT. That’s a simplification, but when our brains are process-oriented, we’re looking for paths to solutions. So for some people, finding happiness is about finding and acknowledging unhappiness.

I get it. I do this shit too. But let me offer up a little exercise that’s helped me over the years.

Whenever I catch myself complaining or upset about something, I stop and ask myself “What do I like here?” What’s to be enjoyed?

Listen, this isn’t a 100% foolproof way to be happy, but it’s saved me on multiple occasions from ruining someone else’s positive experience. And honestly, it’s surprising how often I find myself wanting to cry about dumb shit like airport shape or lack of half-and-half while I’m en route to one of the most beautiful countries on earth.

That said. I fly back home today. Fuck that Atlanta airport.