Are We Having Fun Yet?

An unlikely prescription.

It was recently brought to my attention that I do not have fun.

This observation wasn’t delivered by a judgmental acquaintance or aggrieved spouse, but rather by my doctor, inquiring after the shape of my life over the last few months.

“You know what I’m hearing?” she said, with a look that can only be described as withering. “You don’t have any fun.”

At first, I was defensive. Indignant, even. I do, too, have fun! I thought, flipping through a carousel of recent moments.

I sometimes watch a show (or three) in the evening. My running playlists maximize cheesiness. I make up songs about the dog and narrate the world through her point-of-view. (To that end, we recently recorded custom prompts in Waze in “the dog’s voice,” so she can provide navigation, and laughed for the better part of a car trip.) Once, like a month ago, I played cards at a bar I’d never been to before.

Sure, none of it was a trip to Disney. But I’m not joyless.

Apparently, none of this counted.

My doctor’s comment was less about personality and more about punctuation — something strategically employed to give a story shape. Fun as an exclamation point. A page break. A meaningful getaway from the run-on sentence that is modern living.

“Fun,” as she defined it, doesn’t have to be lavish or time-consuming or overly special, but it does have to be outside the realm of the everyday. Something to look forward to. Something different, involving planning or presence or the making of memories. A purposeful kind of leisure.

As the days progressed, so did my own recency bias, as everywhere I turned, I heard similar sentiments from others.

“What is fun?” asked one friend, when I recounted my experience. Later that week, another friend said she chose “fun” as her word for 2023. “Because I’m not having any. And I want to remind myself to make it happen.”

Some blame a pandemic, parenthood, society, smartphones. Others call it inertia. Or adulthood. Or life in 2023. I’m sure someone out there is having fun. But I haven’t talked to them recently.

Before this assertion, I hadn’t really noticed the dearth of fun in my days. What I had noticed was that writing felt impossible. Sure, words found their way onto the page, the same way dinner came together, or the laundry got done. Always from a place of necessity. I wrote things for other people. I wrote them for this newsletter. But when I tried to write fiction — something just for me, outside of contracts or obligations — nothing wanted to come out.

Blurry evidence of fun I once had back in 2018.

In childhood, fun felt like a birthright, baked into our very existence. It happened at recess, with friends, when encountering a new concept. It came about in mundane places, through sheer imagination.

But as an adult, I got the memo that fun must be earned or deserved. It was not the stuff of priority. If you never encounter another board game or karaoke mic, no one will follow up to make sure you’re okay. (Well, maybe my doctor.) But what if fun isn’t negotiable? What if it’s an essential ingredient in wholeness, happiness, productivity, and all those other qualities we openly exalt?

When I worked in children’s book publishing, I used to say that books for young people were so much (more) fun, because authors can take greater liberties. Kids are willing to court the zany, to believe in magic, to suspend their disbelief. They have an appetite for drama, for wonder, for pushing and exploring boundaries. You can paint a brighter picture, expand the world as wide as you wish.

Somewhere along the way, I’d taken fun out of the equation when it came to all other writing, especially my own work. When I sat down at my desk, I felt laden with pressure. I wanted to create something good, whatever that means, full of seriousness and truth. But this week, as I finally allowed myself to fill pages with all sorts of weirdness I didn’t know I’d been craving, I realized that adults can use some zaniness, too. Maybe more than we know.

In the meantime, consider this a humble PSA. First, to ask if you’ve had fun lately. And if you have — or if you know a good way to get in touch with that elusive character — please feel free to share.

Card of the Week

Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

Featuring The Carnival at the End of the World Tarot by Kahn & Selesnick

The Tower has a reputation for being among the most — if not the most — groan inducing cards in the deck. But like a cult classic, it also has its fair share of ardent admirers.

Often depicted as a terrifying scene of fiery destruction, this particular deck has the distinction of featuring an affable looking Tower, complete with an optimistic sunflower in hand. It looks less like a harbinger of doom than a forgotten cast member from The Wizard of Oz, moments away from bursting into song. Messengers come in all forms.

Whatever its outward appearance, The Tower is anything but subtle. It’s a demolition crew that shows up uninvited, often without warning. It dismisses the old before anyone has a chance to plan for the new.

Sometimes, the news is unwelcome and so is the aftermath. But what comes next may be golden. The trick is weathering the storm.

The moments following great upheaval are often the times when we see with a renewed perspective — everything looks sharper, clearer, brighter, and more precious than we previously understood it to be.  

Destruction is often painted as an endpoint. The world ends, the credits roll. But in truth, it is also a beginning.

This card wishes to remind us that the structures we see — all structures, from homes to companies to systems to movements — were built by human hands. And as such, they can be dismantled by human hands. They can also be amended, improved, rebuilt.

It is sometimes said that things must get worse before they can get better. It may take a crisis, an embarrassment, a rejection, an intervention, a heartbreak, or a reckoning to usher us there. But as it shakes up our world, renews our resolve, and places us on a new path, what we once cursed may begin to resemble a gift.

Before enlightenment comes a moment of awakening, ushered in by the obliteration of all we thought we knew. Maybe, we suddenly see, we’re not merely the recipients of our stories. Maybe we are also their creators.

This card leaves a message in its wake: Our job is not to know it all. Our job is not to do it all. Sometimes, our job is simply to surrender.

Right now, The Tower may be crumbling. You may feel the first tremors, or you may already find yourself surveying the wreckage. But as this chapter draws to a close, it is not the time to lament what is over. It is time to draw up your plans for what comes next.

“What do you want to build?” this card asks, then waits to hear the answer.

Few things are as liberating as a clean slate. Feel free to take liberties.

The Tower reminds us it is the nature of structures to shift and change — their facades, purposes, occupants. Even their beliefs. We are not immune to such transformation. “This being human is a guest house…” wrote Rumi. Every day a new visitor.

Change is inevitable. And though we may resist it, without it, there would be no potential. No space for growth. No promise of tomorrow, and all we have yet to uncover. Thank goodness for that.

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.