Happiness is so last season

Being happy is so chronically un-hip.

It’s taken me a while to realise it, but I am now (slowly) facing up to the sordid truth. Much as I have delighted, my whole life, in being cheerful and appreciating the little things in life, and picnicking in the sunshine and listening to happy tunes, I have now come to the conclusion that if I continue on this cheerful path I will be doomed to be a nerd forever.

And we can’t have that now, can we?

I was scootering to work this morning (a warm, jasmine-scented breeze blowing, the sunshine warm on my face) when I noticed that none of the cool kids slouching to art school or work or the nearest café were smiling. Not one. Flip through a magazine — none of the stars look happy. They look hungry, and tired, and false, but not happy.

Nor do the models, they’re all scowling.

Or pop stars. They look dolled up, but not cheery.

So I find myself in a bit of a conundrum — continue on this path of cheerfulness, enjoying my days, smiling too much and dooming myself to a chronic case of dorkiness?

Or start scowling, stop smiling, adapt an attitude of doom and gloom and be deemed irrevocably cool?

It’s quite a problem.

As I’m sure you understand.