One recent evening, I was bent over a big canvas in our dining room, which I have hijacked as a temporary art studio. A river of classic rock tumbled through my headphones. Occasionally, I’d get hit with an irresistibly funkalicious song — say, Stevie Wonder's Superstition — and I'd put down my brush and dare to dance, ever-so-briefly becoming a terrible spunky senior citizen from a psoriasis commercial. Then I'd take a swig of lukewarm instant decaf, return to the canvas, and resume the almost physically pleasurable act of turning color into story.
When my husband walked through the room, I told him, "This is it. This is my happy place."
And there it was, I'd gone and said it out loud: I'm happy.
Who does that? Who displays emotional red meat like that for the universe to sniff out and destroy? But I'll say it again.
I.
Am.
Happy.
I'll take it a step farther here, too, and explain that the painting is a project I've been working on for many, many months for the children's section of a public library. I've designed a mural-like image that stretches over multiple canvases, and — yes, I'm writing this out loud — it is going to be very cool (*brushes fake lint off shoulder). This is a dream commission.
Witness my risky behavior: talking about a good thing as if confident that it will continue to go well. Even Eeyore knew better than that.
The hosts of one of my favorite true-crime podcasts conclude each episode by instructing listeners, "Don't be an irony." Meaning, be careful. Don't be a true-crime enthusiast who becomes a true-crime victim. But long before I ever heard The Murder Squad, I was hip to the dangers of becoming an irony. Imagining the potential ironic turn in almost any suspiciously positive situation was as easy as breathing. This is part and parcel of what I call Good News Anxiety: the crippling nervousness that accompanies a sudden wonderful turn of events, preventing one from actually enjoying the moment. (Turns out I am not the only weirdo to experience Good News Anxiety.)
When I first learned of the traditional Jewish tendency not to have a baby shower before the baby was born, my fearful little rabbit heart felt vindicated. Here was a wise approach to almost any positive situation in progress. To mitigate the possibility of inviting an ironically negative turn, Step One is always "don't talk about the good thing."
And yet here I am, tempting the gods, flagrantly chirping my happiness and telling you that I am pregnant with paintings. Who knows, perhaps two years of watching the world catch fire have eroded good sense.
I'm tired of hauling around my big suitcases filled with scary stories. Perhaps it's possible to reach a point in life where superstition is just a song with an insanely danceable riff. Maybe we should just actually, ebulliently meet happy news with happiness.
Boogie on, friends.