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

techniques. First, because it’s annoying to hear a hectoring voice, I found ways for us to suggest tasks without talking; when I put an envelope on the floor by the front door, Jamie knew he was supposed to mail it on his way to work. I limited myself to a one-word reminder. Instead of barking out, “Now remember, you promised to figure out what’s wrong with the video camera before we go to the park!” I just said, “Camera!” as Jamie got up from lunch. I reminded myself that tasks didn’t need to be done according to my schedule. I had to fight the urge to nag Jamie to retrieve the play slide from our basement storage, because once I decided Eleanor would enjoy it, I wanted it brought up immediately. But it wasn’t really urgent. I did give myself credit for not indulging in the popular “It’s for your own good” variety of nagging. I never bugged Jamie about taking an umbrella, eating breakfast, or going to the dentist. Although some people think that that kind of nagging shows love, I think that an adult should be able to decide whether or not to wear a sweater without interference from others.
    The most obvious (and least appealing) antinagging technique, of course, was to do a task myself. Why did I get to decree that it was Jamie’s responsibility to make sure we had plenty of cash on hand? Once I took over the job, we always had cash, and I was much happier. And when Jamie did a task, I didn’t allow myself to carp from the sidelines. I thought hepaid too much when he bought the replacement for the dud video camera, but it was his decision to make in his own way.
    I also tried to be more observant and appreciative of all the tasks that Jamie did. I was certainly guilty of “unconscious overclaiming,” the phenomenon in which we unconsciously overestimate our contributions or skills relative to other people. (It’s related to the Garrison Keillor–named “Lake Wobegon fallacy,” which describes the fact that we all fancy ourselves to be above average.) In one study, when students in a work group each estimated their contribution to the team, the total was 139 percent. This makes sense, because we’re far more aware of what we do than what other people do: I complain about the time I spend paying bills, but I overlook the time Jamie spends dealing with our car.
    I have a friend who has a radical solution. She and her husband don’t assign. Even though they have four children, they have a tacit agreement never to say things such as “You need to take the kids to the birthday party” or “Fix the toilet, it’s running again.” Their system works because they both pitch in, but even so, I can’t imagine living that way. It’s an impossible ideal, yet inspiring.
    DON’T EXPECT PRAISE OR APPRECIATION.
    My examination of my nagging habit showed me that I also engaged in a more subtle form of nagging—nagging that concerned work that I did. I nagged Jamie to give me more praise.
    With something like the Valentine’s cards project, I realized that what I really wanted—even more than help—was for Jamie to say something such as “Wow, the photograph of the girls is terrific! You’re doing a great job with these Valentine’s cards!” I wanted that gold star stuck onto my homework.
    Why did I have such a need for gold stars? Was it vanity that needed to be stoked? Was it insecurity that needed to be soothed? Whatever thereason, I knew I should get over my need for Jamie to applaud the nice things I did, and, even more, I should get over my need for Jamie even to notice the nice things I did. So I made the resolution “Don’t expect praise or appreciation.”
    Until I started paying close attention, I hadn’t appreciated how much this need affected my behavior. One morning, I staggered into the kitchen in my robe around 7:30 A.M . I’d been up for much of the night with Eleanor, who had hardly slept; Jamie had got up with her around 6:00 so I could go back to bed.
    “Good morning,” I mumbled as I cracked open a Diet Coke. I didn’t add any words of thanks for my luxurious extra ninety minutes of sleep.
    Jamie waited a moment, then prompted, “I hope you appreciate that I bought you some time this morning.” He needs gold stars himself, even though he isn’t very good—to my mind—at handing them out.
    I’d been concentrating about behaving better in my marriage. I’d been patting myself on the back for learning so much. So did I say in a tender voice, “Of course I