Happy

I have here a letter from 19-year-old Erin, who lives in Bristol, Virginia.

“Dear Sean,” she begins, “I want to be happy, but I’m not…

“My family is stressing me out, big-time. Especially my mom. My therapist actually recommended that I write to you, seeing if you have any insightful thoughts about happiness.”

Hi, Erin. My first insightful thought is: Fire your therapist. If he or she is recommending that you reach out to me, your life is in serious trouble.

If you want to see pure happiness, however, you should visit the guest laundry facility at my hotel. Which is where I am right now.

It’s a room about the size of a residential bathroom. I am trapped in this room with an all-boy soccer team.

There must be 841 little boys crammed in this space. They are loud. They are unbelievably happy. Testosterone waves are crashing against the walls, compromising the structural integrity of the Hampton Inn & Suites.

I have no idea what a soccer team is doing in the middle of North Carolina. But then, I don’t know anything about soccer.

Namely, because we did not have soccer when I was a kid. During childhood, we only had two choices athletics-wise: (1) baseball, and (2) First Methodist choir.

Naturally, we boys gravitated toward baseball. Although some of us—and I’m not naming names—participated in baseball AND choir because Anna Peterson sang soprano and we thought she was hotter than an oven mitt.

I loved baseball. Baseball made me happy. I played first base. I wasn’t great, but I wasn’t bad, either.

I don’t mean to toot my own kazoo, but I set a few Little League records. For example: I still hold the record, for example, for eating an entire birthday cake in under two minutes.

But that’s the kind of everyday happiness we experienced as kids. Just like the soccer players in this laundry room, who are now leg wrestling on the floor.

If their mothers were here, this would definitely not be happening.

But when you’re that age, you’re always happy. You’re pretty much cheerful all the time when you’re young.

Sure, sometimes things might stress you out, but almost nothing can threaten your overall kid-happiness. When you’re a child, you’re just prone toward being happy.

My question is: Why did we grow up?

It’s a scientific fact. The American Psychological Association states that childhood offers unique psychological benefits, such as fewer responsibilities and a greater focus on play, which all contribute to extreme levels of happiness.

But my main question is, what happened to us adults? Somewhere around our teenage years, suddenly we chose to start living in a world of old people.

Take me. I live in a world of adults. I work in a world of adults consisting mainly of editors and publishers. They all act very adulty. At parties, they have leisurely conversations about the global economy.

They aren’t always happy with me, though. Many of them worry too much about petty things such as, for example, literary deadlines.

But in my life, I have found some people who have managed to retain a deep sense of immaturity. I’m willing to bet there are some people like this in your life too.

And my advice—to myself—would be to observe these deeply immature people. Watch how they live. Notice how they deal with their family.

Notice how few rips they give about washing their car, making their beds, or paying their income taxes.

I’m not saying you should imitate these people. But watch them.

I will never forget one of my old editors, for instance, who was an old, grizzled newspaper man. He was the most immature person I knew. And maybe the most happy. Everyone loved him. Wherever he went, a crowd surrounded him. Usually, a laughing crowd.

One day I asked him what the secret to happiness was. His reply never left me. He said:

“To me, happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city.”