Maureen Dowd of the New York Times and Arianna Huffington of the Huffington Post both wrote recently that women are becoming more and more unhappy the older they get. They site numerous studies all over the world. And it seems that over the past 40 years, women have become increasingly unhappy. We start out pretty upbeat as girls, then it all goes downhill. It seems as if we middle-aged broads are doomed to gloom.

Neither Maureen or Arianna offers a definitive explanation for why this occurs. It could have something to do with having kids — that old saying, “A mother is only as happy as her unhappiest child” could have something to do with it. Or maybe it’s because we have more on our plates — trying to do all the stuff our mothers did, plus all the stuff our fathers did could be taking its toll.

Or it could be that women are becoming more and more likely to pause for a moment while taking a survey to ask themselves, “What is happiness, anyway?”

For me, it happens in unplanned moments, especially when I’m not pursuing it. In fact, maybe it’s the constant pursuit of happiness that is making us miserable.

Then: Orange VW convertible with pack of clove cigarettes hidden in the glove compartment
Now: Green family sedan with crushed goldfish crackers mixed with sand on the floorboards

Then: Hawaiian Tropic Suntan Oil, smells like coconuts
Now: Baby sunblock SPF 50, smells like ointment

Then: Red and white striped bikini
Now: Navy blue one-piece from JCPenny’s Frumpy Mama department

Then: Waiting in the sand for wayward boyfriend to get back from the liquor store
Now: Waiting in the sand for dependable husband to carry everything from the car, pack-mule style

Then: Laying out for hours hoping to be watched
Now: Standing at water’s edge with hands on hips for hours, watching

When I was in fourth grade, our Catholic school hired a down-on-her luck ballet teacher to instill in us girls some semblance of gracefulness. I say down-on-her-luck because this teacher was clearly an unhappy person, less cheerful than most of the nuns. She was young and strikingly beautiful with a ramrod back and tight-bunned hair. I wonder now if she were a fallen prima ballerina, sidelined from her dreams by an injury or some other tragedy.

She was strict and unsmiling with us. Our butt-out plies seemed to disgust her. One day she had each of us come to the front of the class to do some sort of interpretive dance. I found out later she was using this test to assess whether any of us should be invited to join her private dance studio. She stared at me as I awkwardly, self-consciously stretched and bent. I saw her mark something on a clipboard. Probably a big red X.

I did NOT want to be a sissified ballerina. I wanted to be a baseball player. Ballet was for girly girls and I was a card-carrying tomboy.

But now I think, what a gift I threw away. I watch my nieces dance on stage and they are so graceful, so joyful. What must it feel like to move like that? And I look at the little one curled in my lap, watching the show. Should I enroll her? Is she ready? Does she want to?

Dancing is a big business in Fort Bend County. Many of Girl’s friends take dance lessons once a week, and the recitals are massive affairs. But when I think about taking her to the lessons, I think of waiting for her in the car for an hour in the evenings, after I get home for work. It’s hard to want to sign the enrollment forms.

But today I was thinking, what if they offered mother/daughter dance lessons? No, I don’t want to dance with Girl, but with other moms who never danced when they were little. Or with moms who used to dance and now never get the chance.

We wouldn’t have to perform. Believe me, no one wants to see my fat butt in tights. But just to move to music, to learn something new, to laugh and have fun like our daughters do. That would be magic.

“If you don’t love yourself, how can you love anyone else?”

No, these are not the words to a Whitney Houston song. These are the words of my hairdresser trying to convince me to dye my hair.

The last time she wheedled me into it, it set me back about $225. I can’t stand to have hair that’s only one-color, so of course I went for the streaks, which are extra. Way extra.

This time though, she’s not trying to push me into the back room for a three-figure dye job. She’s serious.

“You could do it yourself,” she says. She NEVER talks about DIY projects when it comes to hair, so I know this goes beyond her commission.

“You’d look so much better without all these ugly grays,” she says.

The lights beaming from the ceiling are actually doing a better sales job than my hairdresser. I can see that every single red hair in the crown of my head is now gray. The black ones have remained, but they are dull and lifeless.

Lately I have been joking that I was going for the Morticia Adams look, with one long white streak from the forehead. Now I’m thinking I look more like someone else from TV, the cartoon witch on bugs bunny who leaves hair pins behind her where ever she goes, Crap. I don’t want to be Witchy Poo.

Back to this “self love” thing. That’s a little deep for a Friday afternoon at the mall, but let’s face it. It’s hard for moms to put themselves first. There are so many other people tugging on our elbows, demanding something urgent. We forget to put ourselves on our own “to do” list.

I didn’t tell my hair dresser this, but I DID do something completely for myself that day. I put the kids in daycare and wrote for five hours straight. The house was a mess, the refrigerator was empty, the clothes needed folding, but I wrote and wrote and wrote.

That’s more important to me than my looks. On the other hand, I could really use a bottle of Preference by Loreal. I’m worth it!