Amy Cray

yep. i am trying *that hard* to come up with visuals.

So my wife has declared that we are embarking on a new adventure entitled “The Master Happiness Project”. The outline of it is vague to me still, but it appears to involve not being the yuppie scum my sister declared we had turned into when we showed up for Thanksgiving in a Prius and I stopped wearing concert tees.

She cites a few examples of what changes we’ll make: not using plastic storage bags and walking more. I have reason to believe it ultimately involves not using paper towels, since this all began after she had watched “No Impact Man”, a documentary about a young family in NYC going carbon-zero for one year.

I adore paper towels. I spent my childhood as the obedient daughter of conservationist naturalists who baked their own bread and eschewed hotels for campsites. Part of the joy of turning thirty was the realization that regardless of my heritage, I was not required to stare at the ocean and contemplate eternity, and that fashion could be artful, brilliant and life-changing, rather than just vapid, soul-killing consumerism. I LOVE hotels. I can’t wait until my next bite of artisanal French chocolate. What can I say.

She ultimately wants to bump our life quality up a few notches in a permanent way, which is obviously awesome. And I’m down with walking to the library and riding a bike (assuming said bike is chic, weathered and light blue. A girl has a right to make her mark.) But it’s very hard to jump on board a train going into the fog, especially when your life is already crammed full of activity and you just want to make it stop and spend two days in bed watching Almost Famous. And clean up with an eco-friendly cleaner and the quick swipe of a paper towel.

I am down for this plan and I trust my brilliant wife who is, in the end, the one everyone feels cool just knowing. And I’ve been kicking her ass for YEARS, making her stay up late, drink coffee, go to acoustic shows while she was secretly gagging and plotting her escape. It’s time for her to kick my ass for awhile. But if you see me walking around in clogs and carrying a weathered copy of Walden, please come and hand me a glass of mind blowing Pinot Noir. ‘Cause I’ll need it.