The Case of Fun v. Joy

Googling ‘fun’ leads to this image. Fun is midair.

A major revelation. I am not fun.

Hold on.

For twenty years or so I have been on a mission to understand why it is so hard for me to have fun. I talked to friends and family about it over and over and no one could give me a straight answer. I’m curmudgeonly, I’m socially awkward, I’m broke, I didn’t have the time…all of these were or still remain ingredients in that stew. Social media shed a one-million-watt light on this problem, and it didn’t get better. Look at all the people on vacation, at the bar with friends, goofing around at home. Game nights. Concerts. Hayrides. Block parties. Regular parties.

Now, I think I understand. A few of the solid truths in life I’ve accepted are as follows:

Friendliness is an action.

Happiness is a decision.

Respect is only earned.

And now I have another:

Fun is a talent.

The idea of me wandering around my life looking for fun is as silly as pondering why I don’t have a beautiful singing voice. It is a talent. It corresponds to nothing at all, as far as I can tell. No amount of intelligence makes a difference. Gender, age, social status, job, outlook on life… Nope. Either you have it, or you do not. Just like talent. It can be nurtured and honed and focused, but if you don’t have the talent, it just won’t happen for you.

It’s not that I couldn’t have fun. It is that I am not fun.

Sorry.

I apologize because the thought of people who aren’t fun is just icky. I might be one of them. Maybe you disagree because you know me, and I have had fun with you. I made you laugh or something. Believe me, that happened because you were there. I was along for the ride. And thanks.

If it pleases the court, here is the evidence of me not being fun.

You know those parties where people drink and have a good time? Some of you have been to countless ones? I’ve never been to one. The 3 or 4 times I was invited, I declined.

I don’t like Halloween. At all. Or New Year’s Eve. The fun party holidays are a fucking nightmare to me.

I finally understand the allure of irony. It took me forever, but I decoded it. Irony isn’t serious. It’s just for fun. Enjoying crap is a good time. I still hate it.

I don’t smoke, drink, dance, or party.

Anxiety kept me away from horror movies and thrill rides. These are things specifically designed for fun. Dangerous, risky, scary fun. Nope. Not interested.

Now, have I ever had fun? Of course. Like I said, I was with other people. They brought the fun, and I imbibed in their fun. My kids were fun when they were little. I tried as hard as I could to have fun with them. But once they were grown, that disappeared.

The talent of fun must be the greatest attribute a human being can have. No matter the situation, you can find a way to navigate it with pleasure. Yes, I have depression and anxiety and they are very real. But I’m also medicated. Those things haven’t been a valid excuse for over a decade. This is what’s left.

Before you think this is just a pity party for a 51-year-old who should know better, you should know that I do have the ability to enjoy.

I enjoy writing and reading. I enjoy some movies and TV (Although, less and less.) I enjoy time with the people in my life. I enjoy nature and music and being funny. I’m not joyless, not anymore.

Thank you, Zoloft for allowing me to feel joy. The joy in reading books and watching movies. The joy in texting my friends. The joy in going out to dinner with my wife and watching her critique the entire restaurant staff. The joy in a homemade cookie. The joy in being a stand-up comedy fan. The joy of a beautiful view. The joy of football in the fall. The joy in writing for writing’s sake.

Not everyone can be a musician, but everyone can love music.

Not everyone can be fun, but everyone can (and should) feel joy.