We read in the ARA that since 2008, "well-being throughout the human lifespan has been represented with a U-shaped graph." Children are generally happy, young people too, but adults reach their fifties and also reach the lowest point of unhappiness, "due to the stress and worries of life." And then, you see, it rises again, because the years pass and everything comes back to haunt you. The ARA reminds us that "this theory is popularly known as the happiness curve." And if it tells us about it, it's because "a study claims that the deterioration of young people's mental health has eliminated the typical behavior of this figure."
The happiness curve was a metaphor or a euphemism that spoke to us of the belly (in men) as a symbol of, precisely, a happy belly. He was in a relationship, his children—if he had any—were already entering the age of being truly unhappy, and he'd worked hard to build that belly with the glorious meals his wife prepared for him. The happiness curve for women (or curves, depending on the context) hasn't been spoken of in complimentary terms, because having a "wasp waist" was highly regarded back then.
I like bellies. But I know that part of the unhappiness of the forties and fifties is due to this curve, which raises triglycerides, blood pressure, and tachycardia, and therefore, bad moods, apathy, and unhappiness. Everything changes. Wives don't prepare meals for lunch, and neither do husbands, generally, because they work split shifts and carry Tupperware. They go to the gym or play paddle tennis, and great meals, with great wines, are the reward of the weekend. May it be so for a long time. Pleasures, to be pleasures, must be "seasonal." The beauty of festive food is that it's festive and can't be repeated the next day. We need to celebrate the glorious "everyday" food. The glorious spinach omelet, the glorious house salad with real lettuce, the porrón.
