Is happy enough?

I’m going to break a cardinal rule: the one where you’re not allowed to tell people what you’ve wished for. Year after year, on every occasion where I have received the chance to make a wish (be it blowing out birthday candles or 11:11 or standing at a temple in Japan) I have asked for the same thing: to be simply, plainly happy in my life.
I don’t know anymore though if that’ll be enough in my last minutes of life, to have been happy. I am happy right now, I’m more than satisfied with my life and how it’s going but is what I’m doing enough? Is it enough to lead a good life, meet a good man, live in a good house, have a good job and breed good children? I’m a white girl from the suburbs, and to the suburbs I’ll return.  I haven’t struggled to get where I am today, and for the rest of my good, happy, average life I probably won’t have to struggle to hard either. Is it enough to be satisfied with that?
When you’re young and dumb you think you’re going to do everything in life, you imagine yourself being a rockstar and writing that great Canadian novel. You’re going to be an astronaut maybe, the first woman on Mars and you’re also going to be a spy and be named president of your country. The thing is though, most of us aren’t born to be great. The only people that’ll remember our names when we’re dead for several decades are our ancestors, and even they may only have a foggy idea of who you were.
I’m know I’m smart, but I’m not brilliant; and I know I’m ambitious, but I can’t think of anything in particular that I want to sacrifice every other aspect of my life to. Being happy with my life may be the best that I can do.
I suppose it’s a situation of suck-it-up-buttercup. You may as well be happy because the alternative is you living the same life, just miserably.
I’m happy, I really am, I just falter when I stop and think about it.

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