Desire, the Buddhists tell us, is the root of all unhappiness. That there's something to this is undeniable; I know of no one more miserable than people driven by their wants and jealousies. My sister Judy, for one, is perpetually unsatisfied with what she has already obtained—perpetually coveting more, more, more—and she's perpetually unhappy.
It occurs to me that my life is really, for the first time, free of such desires. If I don't like my job, I exchange it for another. If I want to do nothing, I rest. If I want something, I buy it. If I want to travel somewhere, I go there. If I want to eat something, I swallow it. And on and on. In short, I find myself at my life's zenith of comfort. I cannot imagine how to make myself more comfortable. The thought "If only I could x" just never occurs anymore. And truly, unhappiness has been a stranger lately. This is easily one of the happiest periods of my life.
And yet.
There's no denying that intellectually as physically, I have become soft. When Dorkass, of all people, points out that your mental acuity isn't what it used to be, you're clearly trippin' down Retard Lane. It's evident to me now that challenges wrought by desire—nesting, dating, career—even if they made me miserable, kept me sharp, quick, decisive. Writing tooltips all day might pay the same and allow me to work from home, but it doesn't exercise the ol' brain. I'm also wondering if a little misery, or a little desire to get out from under it, doesn't keep you alert and motivated. Desire may well be the root of unhappiness, but a lack of desire isn't exactly an A-ticket to nirvana.