The Happiness Machine

There is this great interchange in Ray Bradbury's Dandelion Wine between Leo Aufmann and his wife, Lena. Leo has spent the entire summer of 1928 obsessing over and building a happiness machine. It has everything that a happiness machine built in the '20's could have: wafts of sweet oranges, newsreels of Paris, New York, the Sphinx. Dancing music. Endless sunsets.

But when Lena tries it out she bursts into tears. And for the life of him Leo can't figure out what went wrong. Then Lena, with perfect clarity, basically says (I am paraphrasing here): "You idiot. You forget that people can't stay in here. Sunsets weren't meant to last forever. I knew that I would never see Paris but now you have reminded me of it. And now I have to go back to dirty dishes and poopy diapers."

I've thought about Leo and Lena a lot lately. And how infuriating (heartbreaking) it can be to know that Paris is out there but that you will never see it. An option that isn't your option. And how miserable that moment is when you realize that you are stuck.

But I've thought about the flip side of their predicament more. The problem of knowing that Paris is out there and knowing that it is an option. As well as New York. And hey, why not see the Sphinx while you're at it?

I'm more apt to suffer from the latter than the former. I admit that I have bought into the American dream of endless options. Thought (and mourned) about all my options both present and past. I'm simultaneously sad that I never interned in DC or backpacked through Europe AND that I never was the 19 year-old young married girl living in a ratty Provo basement (for some reason this image appeals to my romantic sensibilities). Yes, I know it is impossible to be be backpacking through Europe as a single woman in your 20's and married young and fighting your way into the world and that none of it even matters because the fact is that I didn't do any of those things. But somewhere in the back of my head those were options and I didn't take them. And I erroneously think that I could have somehow done everything. Because that is what the big dream is, isn't it? Doing and experiencing everything?

And the funny thing is that I have absolutely done everything that I ever wanted to. When I was 12 I sat out on Andrea Mangum's tramp and told her and Brittany Bowen everything that I was going to do. I was going to go to BYU, I was going to go on a mission, I was going to marry someone tall, dark and handsome and go to graduate school on the East coast. I was going to get married at 24 1/2 (I honestly said this because I thought it was the perfect age to get married). And it all came true. Every last bit of it. Except for the 24 1/2. I actually got married at 24 and 5/12ths.

And I've been so happy. Except when I get to thinking about options. And how many of them we have (perceived or real). And I am willing to go out on a limb here and say that it can be equally as miserable to have a world (literally) of options as it is to know that there is a Paris out there that you will never see. Because the problem with so many options is that if you can go anywhere it is so dang hard to be where you are. If you know you are stuck, you start to plant trees that you will eat the fruit from. You make a concerted effort to get to know your neighbors. You settle into dishes and diapers and daily. And you start to build.

Honestly, one unforeseen blessing of the current economic downturn is realizing that we might be stuck here for awhile. For the first year our dinner conversations always ended up with the question, "What's next? Where are we going next?" But I've noticed lately that we are just really glad that Matt is still employed. I am starting to look at my house in terms other than how something will affect the resale value. I am starting to plan where we are going to put the garden this Spring. And I think that I'm happier.