Happiness vs. Satisfaction

Rocking, rolling, and writing into middle age.

During my senior year at Gordon College, I wrote a 10-minute play called “The Road to Rockville” about four 40-something construction workers who form a band. Paulie, the leader, tries to convince the other guys to take two weeks off to embark on a “tour” of dive bars and hole-in-the-wall venues stretching from Revere, Massachusetts to Rockville, Maryland. 

The plan isn’t very ambitious. Almost no one would ever know about this tour, let alone care. But it’s important to Paulie, and the others can’t deny their love for the project as he tries to get them on board. 

To me, the guys are funny, admirable, and sad, all at the same time. When the play was performed at the Kennedy Center’s regional student drama festival, the director sensed this tension and had the actors think through the potential personal consequences of their decisions. Would they lose their jobs? Maybe even their families?

At 22, I could not comprehend such repercussions: what a marriage breaking up might feel like or even the idea of losing a job I really needed. To my mind, 40 seemed impossibly old. I could not picture myself even existing at such an advanced age, let alone fathom what I might be doing with my life.

Fast forward 20 years, however, and I find myself embodying my characters more closely than I could have ever imagined. 

I think what makes middle age so hard is that you become painfully aware of the paths you chose not to take and which are now closed off to you. Certain desires preclude others. Choices must be made. Opportunity costs are assessed, but cannot always be seen clearly. 

I know that if it boiled down to it, I would never trade my comfortable, financially secure family life for a life as a struggling, old punk on the road, but there’s an undeniable part of me that still wishes I could have that experience, the fulfillment of that youthful dream. 

Moving to Colorado seven years ago meant setting youthful dreams aside, at least to my mind, even as I embarked on a new adventure. It meant calling it quits with my band, Ready, Steady… Torpedo!, with whom I’d played for the previous decade. It meant leaving the literary haven of Boston. It meant leaving a “dream job” where I wrote promos for HBO, ESPN, AMC, and other high-profile brands, and got to film commercials in New York, Los Angeles, and Miami. But I was ready for a change. 

The people of Colorado fascinated me. They were so unambitious. No one ever asked what I did for a living, nor were they typically eager to talk about their own work. Discussions instead revolved around what music festivals we might be attending this summer, what trips we were planning, and where we preferred to ski, snowboard, hike, camp, paddleboard, kayak, raft, mountain bike, road bike, mountain climb, rock climb, ice climb, rock scramble, birdwatch, cross-country ski, snowshoe, trail run, fly fish, or otherwise recreate in this wild, miracle-land we were all fortunate enough to call home. 

These people really seemed to have it figured out. They’d successfully exited the rat race and learned to enjoy life’s simpler pleasures. 

I was never going to be a real writer, or a real musician, or even a real advertising creative. I was, in the end, after all the striving and posturing, a dad, a husband, and an employee; same as every other dude out there save some blessed few.

Now that I’d officially failed to achieve every dream I’d ever had, I might as well get on with life as an average nobody. Heck, here in Colorado, I might even be able to enjoy it.

I tried. I really tried. 

I tried to stop trying. 

Everyone here seemed to be enjoying themselves so thoroughly and with so little effort. But the harder I tried to tap into their magic, the more frustrated I became. 

Why couldn’t I be happy just to live in this beautiful place? To take in its snowcapped vistas, eclectic music festivals, and abundant breweries? To be content with my nice, little job, solid, little house, and lovely, little family? 

Looking back, I think my mistake was in believing that doing things that brought me pleasure would ultimately bring me joy. Going remote during COVID gave me big chunks of extra time in my daily routine. I filled these hours with mountain bike rides, reading, video games, long walks with my dog, and gin. I set up a small, inflatable pool in my back yard where I could take a cool plunge with a cocktail and a book after listening to a podcast while exploring a new trail on my bike. 

From the outside, it might’ve seemed like an enviable lifestyle. But being stuck behind my own skull, I knew I was lonely, sad, and painfully, existentially bored. 

But as Piebald once sang, “If you’re bored, then you must be boring too.” 

It took a long time for me to stop pursuing that which I thought might be pleasurable, and to reengage with what I found meaningful. 

During these months of flailing, I found my happiest moments in my neighbor’s alternatingly sweltering and frigid garage, writing and playing music. 

Through what must have been, in retrospect, divine intervention, I was invited to play in a band with two of my neighbors, both also dudes around 40 years old with jobs, wives, kids, houses, yards, and pets that needed their care and attention. 

We met at a neighborhood block party, just as we were all emerging from the pandemic haze into the fog of middle-aged, suburban ennui. We chatted about our favorite bands and swapped war stories from our respective, past musical endeavors. Adam was and is still part of a well-known, local bluegrass outfit called “Head for the Hills.” He’s a singer and guitarist for that band but confessed to us that he had always wanted to play drums. Conor, having an old kit in his garage, invited Adam over to jam. 

A couple of weeks later, I passed Conor as I was walking my dog. “Hey man,” he called out from across the street. “Do you play bass?” 

I thought for a moment before replying, “Well, I could play bass.” 

I played it cool in the moment but went out and bought a bass that very afternoon. 

We’ve been playing together now for more than two years. We write original music that fits loosely within the “surf-punk” genre we assigned ourselves. We’ve played four gigs in Denver, and we just released our second EP which, incidentally, I would love for you to give a listen and tell all your friends about.

Even with all the beautiful, amazing places to explore out here, and with all the fun, healthy, outdoor activities, I find I’m happiest there in the garage, collaborating and creating with my friends. I could do it for hours, days even. If it were a choice between a beach vacation, skiing in Vail, or band practice, I’d choose band practice every time. 

I tried to embrace the “live in the moment,” “be here now” mentality so many of my friends and neighbors relish. And I understand that getting out into nature or traveling can be deeply meaningful to certain folks. But I think the idea of future possibility, however vague, is a key ingredient for me. Who might hear my song? Who might read my essay? What will they think? What might it lead to?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to participate in culture, not just consume it; to create it in addition to exploring it. By fourth grade I was drawing original comic books, by seventh grade I was writing silly songs to share with my friends. I thought that in my 40s I should set those childish pursuits aside, but I’m not sure how I ever expected to suppress something so hardwired. And I’m glad that I’m not trying to do that anymore.

I’ve since committed to other meaningful endeavors. I teach a copywriting class at the Denver Ad School. Last Spring, I audited a course at Denver Seminary, and this Fall, I’ll be starting a certificate program in Theology and the Arts at Fuller Seminary. I still get my exercise via weightlifting and mountain biking, but I also started playing pickleball with a group I found on the MeetUp app, which scratches a more social and competitive itch than those solo endeavors. And, of course, Fitz and I have resurrected In Progress, where I get to write about and share reflections on all of it with you. It’s a busy schedule, especially on top of work and family routines, but it’s put me in a much better place mentally.

Once, on a plane, I watched an episode of “Parts Unknown,” in which the late Anthony Bourdain visited a bunch of old friends he used to hang out with in the Lower East Side back in the 70s — punk rockers, painters, and performance artists — checking in to see what they were up to 30-odd years later. 

All of them were still at it in some form or fashion. Over dinner in a high-end Brooklyn restaurant, artist Lydia Lunch attempts to explain the drive she and her peers had in common. “People were doing things because they had to do it, not because of any grand ideal,” she says. “We had to do something because we were burning and our blood was on fire.”

Bourdain begins to ask what made her happiest back then, but she cuts him off.

“Happiness was never the goal; satisfaction was the goal, as it still is,” she says. Then she shoots a wicked grin at the camera documenting their meal before adding, “I’m very happy.”

I’d never heard anyone make that distinction before, and it struck a deep chord with me. Satisfaction may prove even more elusive than happiness. But the pursuit of it creates meaning in my life, even if it’s just in singing about how hard it is to get.