It is a clear indication that you are ridiculously happy when your friends post a link to Wikipedia’s definition of vomit on your facebook status updates. I wasn’t super pleased with the posting of the link itself, but I’m so happy. So happy in fact, that people can poop on my parade all they want. I will just keep smiling. Like the Orbitz gum girl. It’s raining poo, but man is there good stuff to smile about.
Of course, being who I am, and having dealt with what I have been through recently, all this smiling scares me a little. Can I really keep this up?
It isn’t that I’m not a cheerful person. I really am. When I was at my worst, people would often tell me that I didn’t have the disposition of a woman who was jobless and heading for a divorce. I think that there were moments in my life of extreme chaos, during which time you’d have to know me particularly well to have any idea what was brewing beneath it all.
When I do reveal the crapstorm below the surface, it is usually with a wink and a joke. Maybe that was why people thought I was funny. Oh God, am I too happy to be funny?
And is it too soon to be this happy?
And is it possible that another human being and your relationship with them can bring you to this level of happiness?
I am a serial monogamist. If you can get past three months with me it is a good bet that I will keep you around for several years, at least. So, I have done the relationship thing. Three years, four years, seven years, six years. Usually, though, right around three weeks I have a realization about why the guy is all wrong for me. I always break it off, but still fall for whatever plea is made to get back together. Then three, four, seven, or six years later we break up for pretty much the same reason that made me want to end it at the three-week mark. Good guys all, well mostly, just not right for me — and I knew it.
Okay, so I’m eight weeks into this new relationship, and I’m just stupid happy. I can’t find the issue. I don’t want him to go away and give me my space. He doesn’t get on my nerves. I am not thinking that we would be a better fit as friends. He does not remind me of my father. He does not need me to be his mother. I swear to whatever you believe in — the man makes me feel so contented I wish that I could purr.
Now what am I supposed to do with that?