shiny, happy people

CARO COOPER IS SUSS ON FOLKS WITH A PERPETUALLY PEPPY EXTERIOR.

It’s hard not to wonder about those people who are eternally publicly happy. The ebullient people, the enthusiastic people; the ones who never get hungry or grumpy and never, ever get tired. They pop and fizz; they’re always on; they’re permanently PUMPED. You know the ones. They’re never alone at parties and people sing their praises after bumping into them. “Gosh, ol’ Jimmy boy is nice. Isn’t he the greatest?” People flock to them. They make others feel good about themselves. But not me. They used to make me feel bad because I wasn’t like them. Now, they just make me tired and suspicious.

It’s probably schadenfreude, but it’s hard for me not to wonder how many nights these shiny, happy people lay their heads down on pillows soaked with tears. Can their happiness really be so persistent? I refuse to believe it. For example, it’s impossible to be happy two hours into a party your partner has dragged you to. I conducted several scientifically sound, peer-reviewed studies over the Christmas period, and my hypothesis always held. My peers reviewed my mood and agreed I was both grumpy and awful.

There was a girl at my high school – let’s call her Mary – who everyone loved. Well, most people – no one goes entirely unscathed in that snake pit. She had a smile the size of my head and was never mean. She took the time to befriend new kids – a job no one else wanted. There was a literal bounce in her step.

I was the opposite of Mary in every way. I was (am) moody and annoyed and annoying and hungry and tired. Bone tired. I’ve never had the energy or the confidence to be bubbly. I was born old. Still, in between learning Pearl Jam lyrics from the liner notes and drawing decapitated babies, I recognised I needed friends, so I decided to copy Mary. I’d force myself to be happy and bubbly. I removed my Walkman headphones and embarked on several days of non-stop smiling and compliments. At first, people were alarmed, and stood back waiting for the dark cloud to settle on my mood. But this was the new me! I lasted two days before cracking that lovely, sweet façade.

It was a quick and tiring lesson that happy people are more loved. If I cared enough, I could have faked it for longer and I reckon I would have become a genuinely happier person for it. It also taught me that if Mary was faking it, she would have been exhausted, and she didn’t look tired at all.

As an adult, I have a few friends like Mary. They’re always moving, always hugging – they almost leap out of bushes to surprise you with love and compliments. Many of them are happy right through from the surface to their very core. For others, though, there’s a different reality when they’re alone. Even though they may feel like death underneath, their smiles never let on publicly. It’s all about that unhealthy self-sacrifice stuff: hide your emotions until they burst at the seams. (You’d just better hope you’re close to home when your seams start popping, because that shit gets messy.)

One happy friend engages and charms by asking people a lot of questions about themselves. In giving others a chance to talk, she spreads joy. I tried this tactic, too, but it ended with my boyfriend begging me to stop interrogating him, suggesting I was either drunk or trying to hide something horrible. Yeah, my personality, bro.

Look: whether they’re faking it or not, those happy souls make the people around them feel better. They prioritise the happiness of others, and in doing so, probably make themselves happy, too. I’ve given up my research into their joy, but I’m still a little bit suss on them. And still very, very tired.