Happiness.

Not one, but two of my closest working friends are in the midst of losing their minds. Both of them have met The One.

You know the one.

The guy that is different from any guy before. The guy that has them actually giggling at the mere mention of his name, the guy they just know was meant to be, the guy whose lovemaking skills have led them to discovering their own vaginas for what seems like the very first time ever, and the guy they never, ever thought would ever happen to them.

Ten thousand Care Bear stares can not begin to compete with the joy emanating from these once neurologically typical women. They are so fucking happy right now, they're pooping glitter and sunbeams.

The best any of us can do is to avoid eye contact for fear of facing another conversation about whether he's just so wonderful, or simply awesome.

Don't get me wrong - I'm happy for them both. Really, I am. I know there are those of you who think of me as a petty, jealous and cynical bitch and you would be correct. However, these girls deserve all the happiness in the world and I'm glad that they've found it.

No, really. I am!

I'm only a petty, jealous and cynical bitch when I'm...well...jealous. Could I be the bigger person and accept that Alex's girlfriend might in fact be a great girl and I should be happy that he found somebody?

No.

Could I be the only person who walks out alive from a cage match to the death with that slut?

Yes. Yes, I could.

That feeling probably isn't unusual, but the idea that happiness is deserved or that I should have any say in who and who doesn't deserve a story book life consumes me more than normal people.

All of my friends deserve happiness, and when they're happy I'm happy for them. When I feel somebody has good fortune they don't deserve, I'm angry with the universe.

Luckily for those people, I have barely any say in when I have to pee let alone who in my highly esteemed opinion deserves a good karmic ass-kicking. Life isn't fair. It's about the one thing I know for certain, other than buttered bread will always fall to the floor face down.

Which brings me back to my two girls, who are just so entertaining. I make it a point to stop by one woman's office a couple of times a day, just to stick my head in the door, say his name, and watch her light up and giggle. This woman is a grandmother, albeit a young hot grandmother, but a grandmother who's still a giggling hot mess.

I'm too lazy to walk to my other friend's office, so I phone her instead. I have no other purpose in calling besides knowing that if she doesn't get to gush about him every 15 minutes her head and heart will simultaneously explode.

Like all deliriously happy people, they want everybody around them to be just as happy. Although the two have never actually met as far as I know, they have both breathlessly told me the exact same thing at different times.

"Oh Bambi...I just want you to experience what I'm feeling!"

I know it could be worse. It's not like they're saying this while their faces are on fire or they're cramping with diarrhea. They want me to be just as deranged with joy over having finally met a really great guy I fall ass over ears for, who in turn, and I believe this to be the key difference, falls head over heels for me.

The truth is, I know exactly what they're feeling. It's not as though I've never been consumed with a guy to the point I can't think of anything or anybody else. I know how strange it is to be smiling all the time for no reason, and to squee with happiness every time somebody says his name.

That feeling of...this is who I'm supposed to be with. This is what it's supposed to feel like. This is what everybody is talking about. This is who I've dreamed about long before I even knew I wanted him is very, very familiar.

I know what they're feeling. In fact, there are actually two guys in my life who have let me glimpse beyond the velvet ropes separating those of us who go about our daily lives only worried about our jobs and our bills and whether the yogurt in the back of the fridge is safe to eat versus those whose only concern is whether it's actually possible to die of happiness.

As it turns out, both of those guys just happened to find other women. Before meeting me, while meeting me, after meeting me - the results are the same, and they're all deliriously happy.

In those situations, it's a little harder to be quite as happy for them as I am for others.