One fine day, I was engaged in the never-ending job of chauffeuring my daughters, and as I was carting my youngest somewhere and talking about something that I’m sure was very interesting, she interrupted me and said, “Mom, don’t be such a Gretchen Weiners.”
What?
Since I couldn’t take my eyes from the road and eviscerate her with a scathing glance, I replied, “I beg your pardon?”
“You know, Gretchen Weiners from Mean Girls. She knows everything about everyone. That’s why her hair is so big. It’s full of secrets.”
Again, what?
“She pathetically tried to make ‘that’s so fetch’ a thing . . . a new slang phrase. Stop trying to make fetch happen, Mom.”
Umm, okay. In a not-so-subtle way, my fourteen-year-old was throwing some heavy shade my way. I love and respect my daughters. Their fervent fight for inclusivity, activism, and enlightened perspective inspires and truly humbles me. They’re my raison d’être and best accountability buddies ever. But that does not preclude me from seeing them exactly as they are in those occasionally less-than-perfect moments when their impassioned beliefs strangle polite discourse—when their self-righteous smugness and OK Boomer derision for anyone over twenty rears its ugly little head. It’s totally annoying, especially since I’m the one who finances their hallowed little existences.
And furthermore, I was not about to have my fourteen-year-old Regina George me. I mean, come on. I saw Mean Girls before she was even born. Ironically though, I rather did like the idea of championing a “happiness” happening. A crusade for hope. Was that so far-fetched? (Wink, wink or eye roll, your choice.) In this very moment, I decided that chronic happiness was going to be my magnum opus. I was determined to have something good come from the shitshow of 2020. To build a thriving lemonade stand on the foundations of the life lessons it had slapped me with.
And with that, my friends, the idea for this book was officially born. Dropped by a snarky stork shapeshifting as my precocious teen. This inspired moment had the unshaven hair on my legs standing at full attention (in defense, your honor, grooming took a bit of a hit during the pandemic). I swear I could hear Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” in the background soundtrack of my mind—the motivational montage which morphed into a super mash-up with Rocky’s theme song “Gonna Fly Now.” A John McClane meets Rocky Balboa surge of inspiration. It was fire.
You are allowed to be both a masterpiece and a work in progress, simultaneously.
– Sophia Bush
The common usage of chronic is “persistent, constantly recurring,” most often in reference to an illness or something negative. I wanted this beleaguered little word to gain secondary fame as a ceaseless marathon of ooey-gooey awesomeness. In my Shangri-La of slang, chronic happiness came to refer to the constant state of play—i.e., specific habits, strategies, and mindset that keep you rooted in happiness.
Interestingly enough, I discovered during my research that “chronic” was also slang for good marijuana. Apparently, Snoop and Dre birthed the malapropism when partaking in some extraordinary hydroponic variety. Well, I wasn’t going to let that deter me in my quest for having chronic happiness happen. At least in their lexical usage, it means really, really good weed. And Snoop is dope. And apparently, I am Gretchen.
So, let’s be hope dealers.
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