There is a reason we enjoyed Superbad. Well I didn’t, but I’m guessing there’s a reason gazillions of other people paid 10 bucks to see it. It definitely wasn’t for that period scene, which I’m pretty sure .05 percent of the population found amusing, but possibly for the inadvertent chuckle afforded by escapism. You know, the emotional hiding in the closet? When the closet has a pony keg on the coffee table and one of those awful hippie tapestries on the wall? Because when you’re witnessing teen film angst, you aren’t changing a crappy diaper or taking your 11th pregnancy test or wondering how the hell you wrap twine around a roast without feeling just a little like Buffalo Bill. We’re all dying here. TPS reports and flooding and unemployment and Comic Sans splashing it’s gross self on professional emails worldwide. Life is too much to stomach. Overload awaits us, and our exhaustion will manifest, dear friends, whether it be in the form of going postal or having an affair. Enough is enough is enough.

A boyfriend’s mother once confronted me on my state of mind. I remember her moving her lotioned elbows across the kitchen island as she spoke. If you don’t like your job, Kris, why don’t you just get another one? I shook her words off like snowflakes on a dry coat. What did this 40-something woman know that I did not? It wasn’t just about making change. Things what were they were. We are where we are. Her son was a lifeguard, now deceased, which I understand creates both an awkward and teaching moment for us all, and I, his wimpy girlfriend, was working at a nursing home during the day and at a day care during my evenings. Life wasn’t about paths and options and roads yet traveled, but absolutes. About SATs and oppressively bright college bed sheets. But even then, was it?

I am doing my damndest to seek joy everywhere these days, even when I see overemoting couples, the ones with the perfect faces and asses and life plans, likely to include a condo down payment from Mom and Dad and the Coach clutch I’d give my right ovary for. It’s in spicy curry licked from my fingers and occasionally my knuckles. Uniform silverware without a hint of gold. It’s in a multitude of things, and I decided to take on the task of listing one hundred of them. This is much harder than one would think, much more difficult for me at least, the optimist in retraining.

Here’s my list of joys, intact and meaningful, regardless of their distance from my reach at any given moment. Enjoy.