Happiness is a Choice

Happiness is a Choice

I recently heard a television personality talk about 'Social IQ.' The gist of the story was that people's success and happiness in life depend more on their ability to empathize than on their ability to intellectualize. I have a tendency to think things to death and that premise lodged in my mind.

A couple of days after Christmas, I watched people at the mall. It didn't take long to see that those who asked the clerk how their day was going or made some other small talk, got the best service. I glanced around my office; again, those who offered the most help, got the most help. As far as I could tell, they didn't actually need any more assistance than the next guy. Neither were they any more helpful than any other employee. Still, they ended up with less work and more support. Based on my observations, the driver who let another driver pull in was more likely to get the same courtesy shown to him.

Could it be that the golden rule of success turns out to be the Golden Rule?

I decided to conduct my own experiment. Of course, my everyday approach is a do-unto-others one, but not as consciously as I chose for this test.

I kicked off the 'Congeniality Competition' early Monday morning. Everything with me is a competition, even when the only contestant is me! As soon as I was dressed, I brought my husband a cup of coffee. I asked if there was anything I could do for him on my way to work. Well, I can't really count that little selfless act because all of my days begin with Randall bringing a cup of coffee to me in bed! I don't bring his until I've had one, taken a shower and am about to leave the house. By that time he's had three cups and he's eager for me to get out of his hair so he can get ready for his own work day. It occurred to me that maybe he is successfully practicing the be-nice to get-nice routine!

I'm blessed with a five-minute drive to work; still, I found an opportunity to let someone from a side street pull in front of me. I was rewarded with a polite wave from that driver and a sharp honk from the one behind me. In keeping with the new me, I merely waved to the offended driver--using my entire hand, not an appropriate finger.

I was the first one to arrive at the office, so I unlocked the door, turned on the lights and made coffee. Den arrived next, or so I thought. As it turned out, I hadn't arrived first; he was waiting in the parking lot because he couldn't get in.

"Ann, wha'sa matter? That bed feel too good today?"

"Oh, Den, I didn't see you downstairs."

"I was in my car, been there fifteen minutes. Ya think I'm gonna stand in the wind?"

"Den, why don't you let me give you a key? Then you wouldn't need to wait for me."

"Yeah, sure. I can sprint from the elevator to the alarm or maybe have a heart attack climbin' two flights of stairs."

Uncle Den is my eighty-year-old Italian uncle. He stands four-foot-ten, is round, balding and an easy caricature of every old-time movie mafia hit man you've seen. He doesn't talk; he growls.

"Maybe I shudda called ya' when I got up."

Well, today I'm not taking the bait. I'm Amicable Ann. I gave him a little squeeze and went to my office.

There's a phone message light blinking; that's never a good sign on a Monday morning. Sure enough, the news is not good. The commercial underwriter's not going to make it today. Her youngest is sick and she must stay home as a good mom should. My first thought was, When was the last time the good daddy missed work to stay home with the sick baby? I erased that thought and replaced it with gratitude for the opportunity to spend a little more time with my customers and my companies. I was the sympathetic supervisor.

By lunch time, I had the 'sweetness and light' routine down pretty well. I had held the door for the UPS guy, brought a box of Kleenex to the receptionist, washed the office coffee cups and watered my partner's potted plants. I had talked to three company reps, actually solving their concerns rather than leaving them for tomorrow when the underwriter would be back at her desk. I even picked up the tab for lunch. And, at day's end, I had gone the extra mile about as much as I could.

None of my good deeds had a noticeable affect on how I was treated by my colleagues, fellow diners, service people or my family. People seemed to be who they were regardless of who I was. As I ruminated on this, the following thought crystallized:

I had a good day and it had a lot more to do with who I was than who anyone else was. I had not been offended because I chose not to take offense. I had not been hurried because I chose not to be hurried. I had been happy because I chose to be happy. While it is true we can grease the wheels sometimes and make someone else's day a bit better, the day we really control is our own.

Sometimes the only thing we can change is our mind and sometimes that's the only thing that needs to be changed. I think I heard that somewhere once. I wonder where? Maybe I'll think that to death tonight.