Sat, 22 Mar 2014 14:00:10 +0000

It's been about a decade since I first met my friends at NYU's college newspaper. We worked late nights putting out the 12-page rag. And in our tired stupor, we shared our aspirations of becoming professional journalists and getting paid to do what we love.

A few years later, we sat around at a bar sipping beers, and we found ourselves talking about our escapades as professional journalists. We complained about this and that. We talked about getting the right opportunity, because then we could really show the world how talented we are.

Last weekend, we gathered again. We did the usual — drinking beer, sharing aspirations and complaining about this and that. Many of us are relatively successful. By that, I mean we are doing what we wanted to do. Or at the least, we're close enough. Just one more eek, and perhaps we'd be where we said we wanted to be as college freshmen.

But then we started talking about what makes us happy — about what would make us happy.

Adam, in his infinite wisdom, said he's come to the conclusion that no amount of professional success would bring him happiness.

Someone else, I don't remember who, said they've been trying to be satisfied with things other than work.

Then as we sat around reminiscing about all the times we didn't think of talk about being happy, Amanda said that she was happy at that moment, and we all agreed.

It seems happiness has nothing to do with satisfaction.

And it seems satisfaction is not the plurality of happiness.