what makes you happy and then doesn't?

Today I thought: I do want to be happy. I really do.

So then I thought: What will make me happy?

I decided: Boots will make me happy. First at the time of purchase, and then every time I push my feet in and pump up the road with snug toes and calves and people making sideway glances and saying things like ‘Damn, look at those gosh hot darn boots’.

I declined: Nothing will make me happy. Nothing. And I slumped into my swivel chair, hoping that the gas would explode and I would be propelled through the plaster ceiling, just as the Safety Alert email had informed me had happened in a miserable office in Thailand.

But then I thought: Tegan, be proactive. Stop this wallowing. Wake up. Go to the shop. Spend some money, because that’s about the only thing it’s good for. Buy yourself at least some happiness, because God forbid it won’t come about any other way.

So then I went: To the shop. To try on some boots. In fact, I went to many shops and tried on many boots. Probably nine in total, but I wasn’t counting, just getting exhausted and hungry, and the fluorescent lighting and my muscle-less calves and all the girls with their radiant skin and profitable hair and obtuse boyfriends were putting me severely offside.

This should have happened next: Resignation and home in time to watch Neighbours, which I seemed to had forgotten is the only true and reliable source of happiness.

This actually happened next: My foot got stuck. And my foot had no sock, stocking or other lubricant kind, and the boot had no zip, just lengths and lengths of leather and not altogether supple elastic.

So this is what I did: Struggled.

And then came: The upper-lip sweat, because of my ridiculous, duck-down quilted coat, which is built for the icier likes of Switzerland, and not for sitting on a chair trying to lean forward in the shoe-section at Myer in Brisbane, which smells like foot and lots of it.

So I took: Five deep breaths. And I tried again, this time folding the leather body down over my ankle.

This happened next: Nothing.

So I thought: This is too much. This is too, too much.

And then came: The tears.

Followed by: Looks of pity and alarm from other shoppers, who seemed much more content with their boots and where they've been and where they're headed.

And I wondered: Why is this happening? The shoe does not fit. Why am I wearing it?

And I wished: That I had someone to call.

And I felt: Utterly stuffed and flushed, not to mention unbelievably stupid for thinking my notoriously inflexible ankles would work around a lack of zip or flap.

And then: After a few nauseous moments, and with one final push, the boot came off and I was turned off ever having children, and I went on my dejected way home and decided to not try to be happy ever again.