Happier at Home: Kiss More, Jump More, Abandon a Project, Read Samuel Johnson, and My Other Experiments in the Practice of Everyday Life

by Gretchen Rubin

  JUMP

  One of my most useful happiness-boosting strategies was my personal commandment to “Act the way I want to feel.” Over and over, I saw that if I act in a loving way, I feel loving. If I act cheerful, I feel cheerful.

  One morning, as I waited outside the door of Eleanor’s kindergarten class, I saw one mother give a little skip as she walked down the hallway, and I was struck by the exuberant charm of that unconscious gesture. My feet, by contrast, rarely left the ground. My exercise featured the stationary bike, the StairMaster, yoga, and weight training. I walked everywhere. I almost never ran up the stairs or hopped over puddles. In an instant, I decided I needed more jumping in my life. To put a spring in my step, literally, I resolved to “Jump” every day.

  The allure of jumping shines from the “jump pictures” of Philippe Halsman, the photographer responsible for more than a hundred Life covers. He asked people such as Richard Nixon, Marilyn Monroe, John Steinbeck, and the Duchess of Windsor to jump for their portraits, and it’s exhilarating to look at these photographs.

  Every day, whenever the thought occurred to me, I gave some kind of jump. I jumped in a silly way to make my daughters laugh, I gave a little secret skip on my way to the drugstore, I hopped up and down in my office, I did jumping jacks after I woke up in the morning, I jumped down the last few stairs. The sheer goofiness of it always made me feel cheerier, and the energy of the gesture made me feel more energetic. Energy creates energy.

  TRY ACUPUNCTURE

  When I was writing my biography of John Kennedy, I’d been struck by a remark that he made to his aide Dave Powers: “So much depends on my actions, so I am seeing fewer people, simplifying my life, organizing it so that I am not always on the edge of irritability.” I hadn’t just been elected president, but I also often found myself on the edge of irritability, and I, too, wanted more tools for self-mastery.

  For years, various friends had told me about their experiences with acupuncture, but I’d never paid much attention. Although my neck gave me occasional trouble, I didn’t have any problems with chronic pain, and I’d never had a particular reason to try it.

  However, I became intrigued one morning when a friend happened to mention how much she loved acupuncture.

  “Really? You go to an acupuncturist?” I asked, surprised. She’s a very skeptical person generally, and not much interested in alternative medicine (although acupuncture, or treatment by insertion of needles at specific points in the body, is now so widely practiced that it doesn’t really qualify as “alternative”).

  “Yes! I’ve had really good results. I try to go once a week.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I started going because of my insomnia.”

  “Right.” I nodded.

  “It helped with the insomnia, but more than that, it makes me calmer. I have so much energy, my mind is always going a million miles an hour—I feel like I have to do three things at once. After acupuncture, I still have my natural energy, but I can take my time; I don’t need to race around. I can sit and read a book. I’m less impulsive when I make decisions.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “It pinches for a second when the needle goes in, but that’s it.”

  “How many needles?”

  “Sometimes as few as eight. Last time I had about twenty-five. It depends.”

  “Do you really think it works?”

  “The first time I had acupuncture, I could feel something like an electric current pulsing around my body. Now I just generally feel better, more calm.”

  “You know,” I said, making up my mind in an instant, “I’d like to try it.”

  “Let me know if you want the information.”

  Maybe acupuncture would be another tool for self-regulation. I imagined it as a human tune-up, a way to get adjusted and aligned for better performance.

  A few weeks later, I was heading up an elevator for my appointment. The waiting room was exactly as I’d pictured it, with chimes, a statue of the Buddha, a scroll, and one of those tabletop miniature Zen gardens on the coffee table—also, somewhat incongruously, a metal scale like the one at my gym.

  I’d prepared for the visit by filling out an exceptionally long first-time-visit form that covered everything from my eating habits to my family history to whether I had complaints such as “feelings of heaviness” or “foggy thinking.” From the questions asked, I inferred that many people came to acupuncture for help with infertility, digestive problems, muscle pain, or stress. I described my treatment goal as “general wellness.”

  After I’d handed in my form and moved to a treatment room, the acupuncturist’s assistant took my blood pressure. This bit of standard Western medicine seemed out of place in a room dominated by three posters depicting the acupuncture points and a crystal suspended in the corner.

  The acupuncturist breezed in—a likable, conversational guy, very preppy. He checked the pulses in my arms and legs, examined both sides of my tongue, then explained to me why, according to this theory of medicine, my liver and kidney function needed adjustment. I couldn’t really follow his explanation; I was bracing myself for the needles.

  The assistant had confided to me that my acupuncturist’s nickname was “Butterfly Fingers,” which was reassuring, and, in fact, his actual sticking-in of the needles was painless, except, oddly, at the top of my left ear. The needles looked very thin, light, and springy compared to other kinds of needles; I lost count after he’d inserted thirteen.

  We chatted as he worked, mostly about the weather. I felt odd, carrying on a conversation as I lay with needles poking straight out from my forehead, ears, and other places. The acupuncturist, naturally, took no notice.

  “I’d recommend an herbal supplement to help you along the lines we discussed,” he said when he’d finished. “And you might consider Reiki and Shiatsu. We offer that in this office, or of course you can go elsewhere.”

  “Okay,” I replied. “I’ll think about it.”

  “And if you want to continue treatment, come back in about a week.”

  “Okay.”

  On my way out of the office, and for the rest of the week, I debated about whether to return. I couldn’t detect a difference in my physical or mental condition. Was one visit a fair trial? Probably not. And I hadn’t articulated a clearly defined goal. If I’d been trying to get rid of neck pain, for instance, I’d know if acupuncture had made a difference, but did the session contribute to my feelings of “general wellness”? Not that I noticed.

  I did some research. Studies on the efficacy of acupuncture aren’t very convincing, and they suggest that when it does work, its benefits are largely due to the placebo effect. That being said, placebos are often quite effective, especially for disorders that are largely subjective or involve pain. Well, if I thought I felt better, I did feel better. But I didn’t feel better. Just the same.

  Apart from the scientific view, I considered my own experience. An acupuncture session cost me time and money. If I wanted a boost in “general wellness,” perhaps I should spend that same money and the time on a massage; I treated myself to massages only when we were on vacation, and I loved them, and studies show that massage lowers stress hormones and boosts immunity. Getting more massages would not only be healthful, it would be a great treat. Or I could spend the time on exercise; exercise always boosts my mood and is a key to good health. I wasn’t sure about acupuncture, but I knew that massage or exercise would make me happier.

  I was glad that I had tried acupuncture, because I’d always been curious about it. And maybe it worked for other people, in other circumstances. But for me, one visit was enough.

  At the end of the month, as I was reading yet another article about happiness, I encountered a familiar and influential line of argument: that happiness isn’t a goal that can be directly pursued, but rather is the indirect consequence of a life well lived. This position has many esteemed proponents, such as George Orwell, who wrote, “Men can only be happy when they
do not assume that the object of life is happiness,” and John Stuart Mill, who wrote, “Ask yourself whether you are happy, and you cease to be so,” and Aldous Huxley, who wrote, “Happiness is not achieved by the conscious pursuit of happiness; it is generally the by-product of other activities,” and an unknown author (often said to be Nathaniel Hawthorne) who wrote, “Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always beyond your grasp, but, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you.”

  But—as audacious as it may be to contradict such venerable figures—I heartily disagree. Whenever anyone raised this argument with me, I argued back. “How do you directly pursue happiness,” I’d ask, “that’s different from pursuing it indirectly?”

  One person responded, “I never strive directly for happiness. Instead, I seek accomplishment and meaning, and that gives me satisfaction. Or in a pinch, really vigorous exercise.”

  “Yes!” I answered. “Those are exactly the kind of activities that would be undertaken by a person aiming directly at happiness.”

  Another person argued, “Leading a pleasure-driven, instant-gratification, consumerist life doesn’t build happiness.”

  “Right!” I said. “But does anyone seriously argue that leading a life of constant indulgence leads to happiness?” True, some people choose to live that way, but not because they’ve mindfully decided that it’s the path to enduring happiness. Even advertisers hawking pleasure-driven, instant-gratification purchases tie their products to deeper values. The ad for expensive bath salts appeals to notions of health and serenity. The cell phone ad promises that we’ll grow closer to friends and family. The car ad invokes safety and reliability, or contrariwise, freedom and adventure.

  Eleanor Roosevelt said, “Happiness is not a goal; it is a by-product.” But that’s a false choice. Happiness is a goal and a by-product. The activities a person would undertake to pursue happiness directly are identical to the activities that would yield happiness indirectly. Helping others, finding engaging work, building close ties to other people, going for a run, finding opportunities for fun and challenge, clearing out the garage—in what ways would these two paths differ?

  In the area of happiness, false choices seem particularly alluring. One reader wrote to me, “The question is whether I risk everything to find true happiness or keep my job and continue feeling blah.” Hmm, I thought, were those really the only two options? False choices are tempting; instead of facing an intimidating array of options, we face a few simple possibilities:

  • “I can have a few close friends or a bunch of superficial relationships.”

  • “I have to marry this person now or accept the fact that I’m never going to have a family.”

  • “I can work toward my own happiness or other people’s happiness.”

  • “It’s more important to be authentic and honest than it is to be positive and enthusiastic.”

  • “I can have an interesting life or a happy life.”

  • “If I don’t want to live in a chaotic, clutter-filled house, I need to get rid of all my stuff.”

  But although false choices can be comforting, they can leave us feeling trapped and blinded to other possibilities.

  We’re more likely to hit a target by aiming at it than by ignoring it, and happiness is no different. In his strange, thrilling novel about happiness, A Landing on the Sun, Michael Frayn wrote, “The idea of happiness is surely the sun at the centre of our conceptual planetary system—and has proved just as hard to look at directly.” At least in my case, I found that thinking directly about how to be happier helped me to discover the changes likely to build happiness.

  March

  FAMILY

  Hold More Tightly

  He was like a man owning a piece of ground in which, unknown to himself, a treasure lay buried. You would not call such a man rich, neither would I call happy the man who is so without realizing it.

  —Eugène Delacroix, Journal

  - Follow a threshold ritual

  - Have an uncomfortable conversation with my parents

  - Plan a nice little surprise

  - Collaborate with my sister

  The first day of March was a sharp reminder to appreciate my family and this time of life: Eleanor’s kindergarten class celebrated “Hundred Day” on the one hundredth day of school. Kindergarten was slipping by so quickly! To me, the school year still felt new. Jamie and I visited the classroom to view the “Hundreds Museum,” which displayed each child’s exhibit of one hundred objects.

  “Jamie, look,” I said, pointing, “here’s Eleanor’s collection. Beads. Look at her sign.” She’d carefully written a label for her work.

  I calectid 100 beds. I mad 10 groops av 10.

  —Eleanor

  Of everything in my life, my relationship with my family is the most important element to my happiness. Jamie, Eliza, and Eleanor are daily influences, but my family extends beyond those three.

  I’ve always been close to my parents, Karen and Jack Craft. Even now that I live in New York, far from Kansas City, they’re a constant source of reassurance and good counsel, which is lucky for me, because I’ve always been disproportionately swayed by their advice. (Some of the best advice from my mother: “Stay calm,” “The things that go wrong often make the best memories,” “Gretchen does better with a few things she really likes instead of a lot of choices”; from my father: “If you’re willing to take the blame when you deserve it, people will give you the responsibility,” “Enjoy the process,” “Energy.”) I love going home to Kansas City, and I love having them visit New York.

  My in-laws, Judy and Bob Rubin, also play a big role in my life. I’ve always gotten along with Jamie’s parents very well, which is fortunate, because I see one or both of them at least once a week. In addition to frequent family plans, I also often spot them walking in the neighborhood, or at the gym where we all go for weekly strength training. (I’d converted Jamie, Judy, and Bob to the InForm Fitness gym—in fact, the owner joked that it should be called “RubinForm Fitness,” because some member of our family always seems to be there. In the middle of an arm pull-down, I’d look across the room and realize that the man in the black shorts at the leg press was my father-in-law.)

  I’d been interested to learn from my research that Jamie and I had made it safely through two of the three most significant stress points in a relationship between a person and a spouse’s family: when a couple first marries, and the families join together; at the birth of the first child; and when an in-law or other family member falls ill or needs to be cared for.

  My relationship with my younger sister, Elizabeth Craft Fierro (or Liz, as almost everyone outside our family calls her), is also one of the most important relationships in my life. She, her husband, Adam, and their one-year-old son, Jack, live far away, in Los Angeles, so I don’t get to see her nearly as often as I’d like. Since Kansas City, Elizabeth and I have never lived in the same place.

  Sibling relationships aren’t studied as rigorously as relations with parents, children, or spouses, but for many people, their relationships with their siblings are their longest lasting. In one study, college women reported getting as much emotional support from their closest sister or brother as from their mother.

  I’d long thought of myself as having the personality of a typical “first child” and Elizabeth, the typical “second child,” but despite widespread beliefs about the role of birth order in determining adult character, studies show that while it matters within a family, there’s little evidence of a connection between birth order and personality type. (My research did reveal an interesting note about sisters: In general, people who have sisters tend to be happier.)

  Jamie’s brother, Phil, is the same age as Elizabeth, and although he doesn’t live around the corner, the way Jamie’s parents do, he’s just downtown with his wife, Lauren, and their three-year-old son, Henry. Eliza and Eleanor love having a cousin nearby, and often remark, whenever they catch sight of anything rela
ted to Elmo or Buzz Lightyear, “Wow, Henry would love that.” (One small but not insignificant source of happiness in my life was that Phil and Lauren, who met in culinary school, always wanted to host the big family Thanksgiving dinner. I was permanently off the hook.)

  For the month of March, I wanted to take steps to strengthen my already strong bonds to my family. To remind myself to appreciate my immediate family and this time of life, I would “Follow a threshold ritual.” In a very different kind of gratitude exercise, I resolved to “Have an uncomfortable conversation with my parents” about issues such as health care proxies and living wills. I was thankful that both my parents were in great health, and if anything, their lives seemed fuller and more hectic than ever before, so this discussion didn’t seem urgent, but I knew that we’d find it much easier to have that conversation if we did it now. In addition to tackling that unpleasant task, I wanted to add more enjoyable moments of family engagement, so I resolved to “Plan a nice little surprise.” And, for many years, I’d wanted to work with my sister on some kind of creative project. Nothing would be more fun than that, and it would be a wonderful way to draw closer to her. I resolved to find a way to “Collaborate with my sister.”

  FOLLOW A THRESHOLD RITUAL

  Gratitude is a key to a happy life. People who cultivate gratitude get a boost in happiness and optimism, feel more connected to others, are better liked and have more friends, and are more likely to help others—they even sleep better and have fewer headaches. Also, when I consider my reasons to be grateful, I’m less tetchy; grateful feelings crowd out negative emotions such as anger, envy, and resentment.

  Although I wanted a sense of thankfulness to permeate the atmosphere of my home, I found it challenging to cultivate gratitude. It was too easy to fail to appreciate all the things I’m grateful for—from pervasive, basic things, such as democratic government and running water, to major, personal aspects of my life such as the fact that my family was in good health and that our beloved babysitter Ashley was so cheerful and full of fun, to little passing joys, such as a surprisingly fast-moving line at the copy store.