I’ve been burning the candle at both ends of late. In the past this phrase conjured visions of blazing the town on a booze and boys filled frenzy while simultaneously factoring in a day job. No such luck now.

What I’m alluding to, rather, is the day job- yes, still very much with the day job. But in place of the hip shaking, love-making nights out: is the steady bump and grind towards becoming an author. Every morning without fail, there you’ll find me, not so much tapping away on a love interest, but on a keyboard. And all this occurs while I simultaneously climb, not a delightfully sculpted form, but the mountain of work that sits rudely in the way of me actually publishing my first book.

I had justified my schedule under the guise of: ‘them’s the breaks for achieving success’. Surely, to claim the mecca of an existence- made up of the ultimate career, partner, friends, appearance, social life, wealth and children- you have to slog out your days until you finally arrive.

That’s the answer to the happiness equation………isn’t it??

I then calculated my arrival date to happily ever after:

I first factored in my dismal account balance. I then timesed that by my future husband being nowhere to be seen. I then multiplied this figure by the fact that my manuscripts keep getting rejected. Now, off the back of this stress, I then allowed time to reclaim my looks, because as it stands I’m accumulating more bags under my eyes than a socialite trails on vacation. This of course will require rectifying by beauty treatments, vitamins and products to counteract this abomination- all of which will mean working more hours, naturally causing more eye bags……… I then factored in my growing fatigue that puts me in cranky pants- the type that pushes my husband goal further down the track due to stroppy tendencies repelling marriage proposals (although in instances of mummy issues, they can work in your favour). But let’s say I do find Mr Perfect at this point; my sums revealed that I would have already postponed the arrival of my exquisite children so much so, that this figure will need quadrupling by my ticking ovaries, which, according to the figures will be well shrivelled. To rectify this, IVF seems the reasonable choice (more money and time). Now let’s say I do achieve all that, surely I’ll be in reach of the happy summit? But hang on! I’ve forgotten to add in the unfortunate tumble brought on by the work hours required to buy the giant house and two cars. Oh, and then there’s the further plummet from the inevitable divorce- the one obtained from separate lives and my counterproductive urge to scape goat frustrations onto the people I love. More eye bags………add therapy fees…………more costs……….years to find another bloody husband……….

I finally came to this rough figure: in affinity years I will reach my goal of pure bliss.

This was a most disappointing development, I must say. For days I wallowed in pity, until thankfully, my dear friend Yas opened my eyes to a foreign concept. On arriving at her quaint apartment I was greeted by an incandescent glow that made me want to snoop for signs of an orgy. On probing for juicy facts concerning her radiance, I uncovered that it was attributed to her new ability to relish in simple acts, like for example: relaxing, reading a book, and sipping a cup of tea outside in the sun.

Surely one can’t behave as this strange earthling speaks of, I thought? I took it upon myself to enlighten her on her life’s purpose of bleeding her existence for the achievement of happiness. But no matter how many ad campaign slogans I regurgitated, she defiantly argued that it requires more balance than that.

As I left that afternoon her nuclear glow and words continued resonating with me. I was so moved that I cancelled plans to sip wine in the bath tub while reading a book. And I have to say, as I swished in the bubbles, I acknowledged the possibility of being too preoccupied with achieving happiness to be, well- happy.

It has made me wonder: In modern society, where achievements are everything and the focus is on always obtaining, could it be that our happiness, Pythagoras equations are missing the square root of relishing in the now? Are we all living our lives as but a mere means to an end?

I look around my tiny apartment with its fridge full of food. I considered my eccentric friends and my nutbag family. Then it dawned on me: maybe I’ve already arrived.