The Happiness Project: Or, Why I Spent a Year Trying to Sing in the Morning, Clean My Closets, Fight Right, Read Aristotle, and Generally Have More Fun

of life’s most exquisite pleasures is making people laugh—even Jamie seems more pleased with himself when I laugh out loud at his jokes, and it’s almost heartbreaking to see Eliza and Eleanor gaze into my face to watch me laugh.
    The other morning, after Eleanor told me the same garbled knock-knock joke for the tenth time, I saw her lower lip start to tremble. “What’s wrong, munchkin?” I asked.
    “You didn’t laugh!” she yowled.
    “Tell me again,” I said. She did, and the next time, I laughed.
    Most of all, though, I wanted to laugh out loud at myself. I took myself far too seriously. On the rare occasions that I did manage to laugh at myself, it was very cheering.
    This topic was on my mind when I was stuck in a slow-moving line at a soup place (no more fake food for me). Two older women at the head of the line were taking a long time to make their selections.
    “Can I try the Spicy Lentil?” asked one woman. She got her miniature cup of soup, tasted it, and said, “Too spicy! Ummm, can I try the Spicy Sausage?”
    The clerk behind the counter moved slowly to ladle out another miniature cup and pass it over the counter.
    “This one is too spicy too!” the tasting woman exclaimed.
    The clerk shrugged without saying a word, but I could read her mind: “Lady, that’s why the soups are labeled ‘Spicy.’”
    I was feeling very proud of myself for not losing my patience at this exchange, but the muttering behind me that suggested that others weren’t being quite so high-minded.
    Just then the tasting woman turned to her friend and said, “Oh, listen to me! I sound like someone from Curb Your Enthusiasm. Make me stop!” She burst out laughing, and her friend joined in. I couldn’t help laughing, and the people behind me started laughing too. It was astounding to see how this woman’s ability to laugh at herself transformed a moment of irritation into a friendly moment shared by strangers.
    It was difficult, however, to devise a way to make myself laugh more—at myself or anything else. I couldn’t figure out a clever exercise or strategy to get myself yukking it up. I considered watching a funny TV show each night or lining up a series of comedy DVDs to rent, but that seemed forced and time-consuming. I didn’t want to get stressed out about my laugh sessions. Was I really so humorless that I had to employ these extreme, unspontaneous measures? In the end, I just reminded myself, “Listen and laugh.” I slowed myself down to give people the big reaction that they craved.
    Chesterton was right, it is hard to be light. Joking around takes discipline. It took willpower to listen to Eliza’s endless, convoluted riddles and to laugh at the punch lines. It took patience to give Eleanor the laughshe expected the millionth time she popped her head out from behind a pillow. But they were so tickled to get me laughing that their delight was a great reward. What started out as forced laughter often turned real.
    I also made an effort to pay more attention to things I found funny. For example, I’m very amused by the phrase that “X is the new Y.” So, for no reason other than I found it fun, I started a list (also keeping my resolution to “Forget about results”):
    Sleep is the new sex.
    Breakfast is the new lunch.
    Halloween is the new Christmas.
    May is the new September.
    Vulnerability is the new strength.
    Monday is the new Thursday (for making plans after work).
    Three is the new two (number of children).
    Forties are the new thirties, and eleven is the new thirteen (age).
    Why did I find these so funny? No idea.
    I had the chance to laugh at myself when a book review mentioned the “newly popular genre” of “stunt nonfiction.”
    “Look at this!” I said to Jamie, rattling the paper in his face. “I’m part of a genre! And not just a genre but a stunt genre. ‘Method journalism!’”
    “What’s the stunt?”
    “Spending a year doing something.”
    “What’s wrong with that? Thoreau moved to Walden Pond for a year—well, for two years, but same idea.”
    “It makes my happiness project sound so unoriginal and dumb, ” I wailed. “Plus I’m not even the only one writing ‘stunt nonfiction’ about happiness ! Unoriginal, dumb, and superfluous.”
    Then I remembered—I knew better; feeling defensive and anxious wasn’t the way to happiness. Laugh out loud, make fun of myself, act the way I want to feel, reframe. “Oh well,” I said, switching suddenly to