Happiness

"Who are You?" she barks.

Smartly attired, with her reading glasses perched upon her nose,
the woman gazes at me sternly.

Once I have identified myself, producing the requisite official identification,
she proceeds to begin the process which will allow me to wash my clothes.

You see, locally, washing machines are strictly rationed to foreign visitors.

And, we must, upon each visit to the Custodians of the Washing Machines,
produce proof of identity prior to payment.

And I, for my part, am most grateful that my identity has been established, and confirmed,
and re-established so frequently.  No crises of identity for me!

But, at any rate, as she scribbles in her book, with great focus and diligence,
as if she were recording my victories in the war against ignorance,
she seems to be totally absorbed in her task, and, even, self-satisfied.

And, I said to myself:  "Now, that's happiness!"

Well, perhaps--the happiness of a bureaucrat who has learned to enjoy their  meaningless work.

And, this, in short, is also the problem I have with the final pages of Keith Oatley's impressive and immensely valuable little book on Emotion.  If we can focus our minds so as to "enjoy" the "flow" of trivial activities, is that really happiness---or, merely professional deformation of character?

Note:  I have been told by a student that I have entirely the wrong impression.  After all, every family in these parts owns a washing machine.  Well, in that case, why is it that visiting foreigners live below the local standard?  Why must I go through a laborious and idiotic process of identity-verification (as if I were crossing a border) and painfully time-wasting paper generation to record my payment, as well as the details of my washing routine (one machine or two?  For how many hours?)
Sorry, but it all strikes me as pure idiocy.  I don't care if local families have one or two or four or twenty washing machines.  What I care about is the complicated system which needlessly enlarges the time that I must spend in order to merely wash my clothes---and pay my employer to do so.  Over the course of six months, the time I waste in these negotiations with the custodians of the washing machines is not trivial.