The Secret to a Happy Life

I discovered it only after a death...

February, 2023

MY FRIEND ANNE and I stood in the middle of the intersection of a one-intersection town in Maine. Anne was looking around, clearly frustrated, while I kept tapping at an app on my phone.

“Look, it says they have Uber here… We will be there in 10 minutes!”

A minute passed. Another minute. The map in the app dipped around, expanded and shrank, no little icon of a nearby driver popping up.

Ride requested. Still looking for your driver.

Two more minutes passed.

“We’re going to miss it,” Anne said tersely.

It was my fault we were in this situation. I’d mis-entered our destination on Google, selecting driving versus pedestrian mode. So what we thought was going to be a 14 minute walk was actually going to be, er, a 42 minute walk. The event was scheduled to start at 1 p.m. and it was 12:36.

“Do you want to check if there’s Lyft? Or maybe there’s a local cab?!” I looked up from my phone helplessly.

Water burbled nearby under a quaint bridge. We’d just re-crossed that bridge after I’d led Anne over it in the wrong direction. That was my first misreading of the navigation app, before discovering I’d messed up the timing as well.

Then a lone car appeared, paused, and rolled down its window, revealing an elderly woman driver.

“Can I help you with something?” she asked.

I walked over and stood next to her in the middle of the quiet road.

“Well yes, maybe. Do you know if there are any taxis here?”

“Where are you going?”

“Camden.”

“Why don’t I just drive you there?”

I was so surprised by her offer I didn’t know how to answer. Then I noticed that the nice lady’s front and back seats were crowded with overflowing grocery bags. Even if we accepted her offer, there would be no space for us in the car. I hesitated.

“I just need to drop these things over there,” she said, pointing at some buildings on the opposite corner. “Then I can take you.”

I effusively thanked her, and Anne and I followed her by foot. The woman parked in front of a private entry next to a store. Anne and I each grabbed as many bags as we could carry.

“Go on in, the door’s unlocked.”

A steep flight of stairs led to an  apartment. The stairs would be challenging for most  older people, but the woman was lithe and fit and easily climbed them. After two more trips, the car was emptied. Anne and I scrambled in. We introduced ourselves and learned our benefactor’s  name was Mary. It was now 12:48.

“What’s happening in Camden?” she asked, as she deftly u-turned and drove in the correct direction.

“Some idiot friends of ours are doing a ‘polar plunge’ for charity. We’re going to watch them,” I said.

“Well then you’ll have to count me as an idiot because I go in the water every day.”

I was seated  in the back seat, so she missed my astonishment. 

“Seriously?”

Mary explained that she owned a wet suit specifically engineered for the frigid waters of coastal Maine. During the winter months, she was confined to swimming off the public beach; but in the summers, she told us, she swam around the circumference of a small island in the harbor.

I’d noticed in the center of Mary’s living room, near to where we’d dropped the shopping bags, a rubber dinghy about the size of an old-fashioned clawfoot tub. It was filled with some books and photographs. It was hard to tell whether Mary kept it as a quaint, Maine-themed storage piece or if it had once actually been used for boating. I asked her about it, and Mary assured us that it was still very much in use.

“It’s how I row myself to the island.”

“Wow!” I said, genuinely amazed.

“Hmm,” she replied modestly.

I was growing a bit anxious as Mary talked, worried we might not make the start of the plunge in time. I could see the back of Anne’s head thinking the same thing. It tilted now and then towards her watch. But as we pulled up to the designated spot on the harbor at precisely 12:57 p.m., I felt guilty about having been anxious. Because so what, really, if we’d been late? Our reliance on this stranger’s kindness was turning out to be such a novel and enchanting experience. This would never have happened back home in Washington, D.C.

I’D NOT EXPECTED to be in Maine in January. But death doesn’t observe optimum travel months. My friend Meghan’s mother, Noel, had recently passed away. Meghan grew up in Maine and had bought a second home in Rockport during the pandemic, in part to be nearer to her aging mother. She’d often urged her D.C. friends to come visit during the balmy months. There was always some reason why we couldn’t.

When Noel’s memorial service was scheduled for late January, however, three of us found ourselves packing for what would surely be a grim excursion to the freezing hinterlands.

Yet from the moment Anne, Christina, and I landed in Portland, magical things began to happen. Perhaps it was one of Noel’s final gifts to her daughter (“I showed your friends why they should’ve come to Maine a long time ago!”) Or perhaps when the unexpected intervenes in daily life, acceptance can produce unexpectedly happy results. 

We stopped by Meghan’s on the way to our hotel. Like almost  every other house we’d passed on the 90-minute drive, it was a 19th-century clapboard affair with charming architectural elements (in her case, a two-seater front porch and double front doors). Was there a central planning commission that preempted modern eyesores? I imagined a local official dressed in fishing pants and plaid shirt explaining to would-be innovators why their Dwell-inspired designs were rejected.

“I’m sorry,” he’d say, “but we only permit concrete in domestic use for foundations and driveways. And in the latter case, we’d prefer you consider more traditional options, such as pea stone or crushed oyster shells.”

The polar plunge was due to take place two hours before the memorial the next day. Despite all the duties of the memorial service, , Meghan would not abandon a previous commitment to a local cause— even if that commitment was as absurd as jumping into icy sea water. She even persuaded Christina to join her. 

“You’re going to bail,” I said to Christina as we left Meghan’s. “I’d put money on it. I’ve never seen you enter a swimming pool heated to less than 90 degrees.”

“Agreed,” Anne said.

Christina laughed. “That’s what my sons say, too.”

A CROWD OF about 50 bathers clustered just below a sea wall leading to a tiny, crescent-shaped stone beach littered with gnarled black sea weed. Anne and I navigated our way to a good view. On the docks beyond, several tall ships had been shrink-wrapped in white plastic for the winter: They looked as if they’d sailed accidentally into enormous marshmallows and become engorged. In robes and sweatshirts, the soon-to-be plungers performed warm-up exercises like amateur boxers: punching the air, exhaling heavily, pacing back and forth, stretching their arms over their heads.

Then, after a countdown from a megaphone, they were off! Into the water!… annndddd just as quickly they were back out again, like a huddle of lemmings thinking better of it. A few hardy  souls reached waist height and dove in headfirst. They were still flopping about as Anne and I went down to congratulate our hypothermic friends.

“We lost the bet!” we said, embracing Christina as she toweled off.

 “I can’t feel my feet.”

Afterwards, we went for lunch at a Main Street diner Mary had recommended. Silky clam chowder. Light-as-air battered haddock with chips. A view of the trawlers that had recently caught our clams and haddock. A waitress who called us “Hon” and took down our order with lovely penmanship.

Later, we walked the few blocks to the First Congregational church where Noel’s memorial was to be held. We passed shops selling mariner-themed home decor and outerwear. I considered buying a bright yellow Sou’wester for my Labrador. Sadly, the store was closed. I was still humble-bragging to Anne and Christina about the guy who’d offered to buy me a drink in the hotel bar the night before— a phenomenon that had not happened to me since 1986. Single women could do well here, we agreed. The men seemed sturdy, outgoing, and in possession of useful skills. My would-be suitor owned a hobby farm. I bet he could fix a fishing net, too.

The church was another 19th-century meditation in simple white clapboard. Its only architectural embellishment was a sturdy steeple pointing heavenward. The interior  was equally spartan: oak pews, a lectern in lieu of a pulpit, tall, arched-mullioned windows that welcomed in the last silvery beams of the dying winter afternoon.

Congregationalists are Protestants “in the Calvinist tradition”: no-nonsense, thrifty, independent types — traits which perfectly epitomized Meghan’s late mother. The service was, fittingly, as spare as the church. After Noel’s divorce from Meghan’s father, she lived for decades alone in a tiny house with a tiny garden in the center of Camden. Yet it seemed Noel was never lonely. Friends recalled stopping by Noel’s meticulously kept cottage for glasses of wine or to chat over the fence as she worked in her postage-sized flower bed. Meghan and her children paid tribute to Noel’s love of family and her activeness in their lives, as well as to her resilience and self-reliance up until her final days. 

As we made our way to the social hall after the service, I found my throat thick and my eyes burning in appreciation of the fulfilling life Noel had created for herself — and also for this small, neighborly place in which everyone seemed committed to the fulfillment of others. I’d been here for what, less than 24 hours? At every corner, in every interaction, I’d been touched by its generous, outgoing spirit.

I WOKE UP groggily the next morning to the sound of church bells. I counted eight and realized I’d better get moving. There was just enough time after breakfast for a walk beside the harbor before Anne, Christina, and I would make our separate ways home.

Anne had wisely retired after dinner the previous night, but Christina and I had  been lured by the convivial noise emanating from a bar across the street from our hotel. Inside we found pool tables and a very active karaoke scene. By the time Christina and I left, it seemed we’d befriended everyone — or they’d befriended us! — including an intimidating bouncer named Mike. When the DJ announced it was closing time, I got in the last request: Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” Some guy stood up and did a pitch-perfect Cohen (which is to say he was gravelly voiced and mostly spoke/shouted the song rather than sang it). But within moments all the other customers had joined in. After a round of hugs, Christina and I stumbled happily back into the cold, star-ridden night.

As we told the story to Anne, we were interrupted by several exchanges of “Good morning!” with passersby. Saying hello, we’d learned, was a mandatory custom in the otherwise frosty streets of Camden. So was pausing to shoot the breeze with a total stranger — habits that would get you treated like someone with Tourette’s in D.C.

Back on the highway to the airport, I resisted putting on an audio book or podcast to pass the time. Instead, I drove the 90 minutes in silence, turning over all that had happened during the unexpected trip and trying to parse why it had left me feeling so happy.

At one point my husband, David, called, and we chatted about the weekend.

“Sounds like you had a pretty good time despite going there for a memorial service,” he observed.

“I know. It’s weird. I can’t explain it.”

Then, on the flight home, I read about a new study on human happiness conducted by Harvard. Called the “Study of Adult Development,” it began in 1938 during the Great Depression. Its goal was to track the health of 268 Harvard sophomores. The scientists hoped by following these men over decades, they might unlock some of the secrets to living a happy life.

It turned into one of the longest studies of its kind, lasting more than 80 years. It eventually encompassed some 1,300 of the men’s offspring and hundreds of others from different backgrounds, including inner-city Boston. Researchers studied every aspect of the participants’ lives — wealth (or the lack of it), family, race, genetics, disease, mental illness, marriages, divorces, career successes and failures, etc.

The study’s startling, if simple, conclusion was that those who developed close relationships lived longer and happier lives than those who didn’t. This was true regardless of any other biographical factor:

Close relationships, more than money or fame, are what keep people happy throughout their lives, the study revealed. Those ties protect people from life’s discontents, help to delay mental and physical decline, and are better predictors of long and happy lives than social class, IQ, or even genes. That finding proved true across the board among both the Harvard men and the inner-city participants.

“Loneliness kills,” said Robert Waldinger, director of the study. “It’s as powerful as smoking or alcoholism.”

But unlike smoking or alcoholism, the effects of unhappiness could be reversed at any age through the simple act of cultivating a community. One anecdote told of a man in his 60s who, after suffering through a miserable marriage for most of his adulthood, found a new, happier life when he began socializing at his gym.

So that was it. Create your own personal Camden wherever you live. Even — especially! — if it’s in a big city.

Noel, Mary, the polar dippers, even Mike the Bouncer, had discovered this lesson for themselves. As the plane landed, I was grateful they’d shared it with me. Now the challenge would be remembering it. As we exited, the woman across the aisle shoved past, clocking my face with her knapsack.

“Good afternoon!” I grimaced.

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AND SPEAKING OF creating relationships IRL, my January essay about the drawbacks of dating apps sparked a lot of skepticism (and even some jeering). Most of you felt it was not possible to meet future life partners any other way except by swiping right. Dating coach extraordinaire Evan Marc Katz agreed with the skeptics (his comments below), which prompted me to invite him on the Cocktails podcast to contest me further. Katz also described some of the most common mistakes women make using the apps and offered his top tips to using the apps successfully. So it you are a singleton looking for a Valentine’s Day date with a potential someone, sign up for Femsplainers Premium and you can list to Evan’s advice here. ~DC

Now to your comments:

Femsplainers subscriber, Michael, wrote:

Thank you for the thoughtful article, Danielle. I always appreciate your perspective. That said, “just say no” to dating apps is about as effective in my opinion as the campaign was for drugs in the 80s. Well-intentioned, but unrealistic.

Pandora is out of the box; and just like every other technological convenience whether it is Amazon, Seamless, or otherwise, people will choose it over the more “friction-ed” options. Plus, as you astutely pointed out, COVID-19 did a number on heterosexual courting rituals.

I say all this as one of the “1%”. As somebody who is sober and introverted, despite being a performing artist and rather gregarious one-on-one, I have very little, if any interest in hanging out in the bars trying to talk to women who often give off the vibe that they would be more interested in a Brazilian wax than having a conversation with a stranger.

The Internet has been a boon for me, in a way, if you consider short-term sexual relationships, “winning”. Just like pornography, I fear that this short-term mating strategy has negatively impacted my ability to bond long-term with a woman. As you pointed out in your article, many men say “why not?!” and are quietly jealous of men like me. What they don’t consider is living the “golden years” alone, looks and swagger long gone, cobbling together some kind of community out of fellow never-marrieds that opted for easy instead of meaningful.

So, here’s to 2023; may we all find a way to return to less convenient more meaningful ways to date. Now, if you excuse me, I have to order products I don’t need on Amazon from the toilet.

Here is Evan’s initial take-down of my essay, sent by email. He especially objected to my suggestion we should be able to “rate” dates just like we do everything else:

Love this, Danielle:

As the author of one of the first books about online dating and as an online dating advocate who believes IRL is still way better, I just wanted to share a few thoughts:

1. Dating sites did consider “reviews”. The problem is — like with Yelp reviews — a. The negative ones get the most attention, b. You can’t always trust the negative reviews.

I went out with probably 300 women online. My guess is that 250 liked me and 50 didn’t. But if those 50 wrote SCATHING things (imagine political Twitter but with a “hell hath no fury” angle), my reputation would be ruined.

2. I’m super pro-flirting. I thought of turning pro once upon a time. The problem is that there is very little IRL taking place anymore. Which is why I tell all my clients who hate online dating that they can eschew it if —- and only if — they can procure one date per week without it. No one in 20 years has been able to pull it off.

Which is why online dating (like LinkedIn if you’re looking for work) needs to be an important part of the equation. The key is knowing how to do it RIGHT.

That’s what I help people do (obvious plug for myself here!)

The essay provoked further chirping on Twitter. Some selected comments:

Oppositeofzero:

Maybe those days were good for you, but the loud club scene, bars, etc. were terrible. and in college just a lot of hookups at frat parties. met my wife at work. only married when i was financially ready to.

S.R.A. Miller:

I married before the apps were a thing, but in my experience (and IMHO), the whole culture of "dating" is no substitute for making friends and establishing mutual trust.

Scott:

The value of online dating is that everyone is there for the same purpose, and the incidence of unwanted advances elsewhere can be greatly reduced. It has its potential pitfalls, but overall I think it’s a good thing.

And Todd, who added a graph! (Bravo, Todd):

Only 30% of people have *ever* used a dating app. And those 30% aren't only using apps. Most people still meet through family, work/school and friends. To say it's "impossible" to date IRL is silly

Last word goes to Bernie for the Corniest Joke Award:

I used eHamorny'r test of 56 compatibility dating criteria and found my perfect match was Charles Manson's sister.

I was astounded.

He had a sister?

Thank you for your comments, and everyone who subscribes!