Unrestrained Joy - Please Use Sparingly

The first notice was a warning.

Not a fine, not yet. Just a gently worded letter from the Homeowners Association informing me that I had been observed “experiencing my property in a manner inconsistent with community standards,” which I had not previously realized was something a person could do wrong.

I read it twice.

Then a third time, slower.

Caroline was in the kitchen, rinsing something that didn’t need rinsing.

“What does it say?” she asked.

“They think I’m not enjoying myself correctly,” I said.

She dried her hands and took the letter from me, scanning it with the same expression she used for recipes that involved more than three steps.

“It’s not that you’re not enjoying yourself,” she said. “It’s that you’re not appearing to. Which is worse.”

There was a difference, apparently.

According to Section 4.3 of the Community Wellness Guidelines, all residents were expected to maintain “a visible baseline of contentment” while occupying shared-facing spaces, including but not limited to front yards, driveways, and any room with an open window.

“I was pulling weeds,” I said.

“You were pulling weeds aggressively,” she said.

“I was focused.”

“You were frowning.”

I considered this.

“I was wearing sunglasses.”

“They referenced the jaw tension.”

I went back to the letter.

They had, in fact, cited the jaw.

The second notice arrived two days later.

This one was less gentle.

It included a photograph of me in my driveway, one foot on the edge of a flower bed, a handful of weeds held at an angle that suggested resentment. A small circle had been drawn around my mouth. Another around my forehead.

“Please note,” the letter read, “the downward vector of the lips and the concentration lines above the brow. These indicators, when combined, create a composite expression categorized as ‘burdened.’”

There was a chart.

It was labeled “Acceptable Yard-Facing Expressions.”

“Content” sat comfortably in the center, flanked by “Mildly Pleased” and “Neighborly Delight,” which appeared to involve teeth. At the far end, past a dotted line, was “Unrestrained Joy,” which had been marked with an asterisk and the words “Use Sparingly,” like fireworks or commas.

“I didn’t know there were categories,” I said.

Caroline didn’t look up from her phone.

“There are always categories,” she said.

At the bottom of the page was a time.

“Mandatory Workshop: Casual Joy — A Refresher.”

“I have to attend a workshop on being happy,” I said.

“You have to attend a workshop on looking happy,” she corrected.

That evening, we walked to the community center.

A group had already gathered. Some people were practicing in the reflective surface of a darkened television. Others were engaged in quiet conversations that ended abruptly when someone laughed a little too loudly, then adjusted.

Herb was there.

“Jonathan,” he said, with a brightness I had not previously associated with him. “Good to see you. Or, rather, good to be seen seeing you.”

“Likewise,” I said.

He nodded, satisfied.

At the front of the room stood a woman with excellent posture and a smile that did not move.

“Welcome,” she said. “Tonight we’ll be recalibrating.”

She dimmed the lights slightly and projected a series of images onto the wall. Faces in various states of expression.

“Which of these feels correct for mowing the lawn?” she asked.

Someone in the back raised their hand.

“Number three,” they said.

“Number three is ‘Private Satisfaction,’” she replied. “That is an indoor face.”

A murmur of understanding moved through the room.

We were given mirrors.

“Begin with neutral,” she instructed.

We did.

“Now add warmth.”

We tried.

“Now remove intention,” she said, as if we had all shown up with too much of it.

This was more difficult.

I watched my reflection struggle through a series of approximations. Each one felt like something I had seen before but never used. At one point I looked surprised to be alive, which she said was "too personal."

Herb leaned over.

“It’s about allowing,” he whispered, making a small gesture with his hand, as if something might enter me and stay.

I allowed.

It felt worse.

By the end of the session, I had achieved something the instructor described as “approachable stability.”

It earned me a yellow sticker.

The third notice came with a fine.

“Noncompliant Affect — Driveway Interaction.”

I had been greeting a neighbor.

There was another photograph. This time, I was mid-wave, my mouth caught between two positions.

“Ambivalence,” the report stated.

The fine was modest but not negligible, which felt like a judgement on my character.

“I waved,” I said.

“You hesitated,” Caroline said.

“I was deciding how much to smile.”

“That’s the problem.”

I began to practice.

In the mornings, I stood in the bathroom and worked through the chart. Content. Mildly pleased. Neighborly delight. I timed them. Held them. Released them. It felt like training for something no one had bothered to explain.

Caroline would pass behind me, brushing her teeth.

“Less teeth,” she’d say. “More ease.”

I adjusted.

Out front, I started greeting people before they had a chance to greet me. It removed the element of surprise. I found that if I initiated, I could control the expression.

“Morning,” I’d say, already in position.

“Morning,” they’d reply, sometimes scrambling to match.

There was a rhythm to it.

A flow.

I began to feel something like confidence.

The next workshop focused on “Spontaneous Laughter.”

We were shown examples.

Too early. Too late. Too loud. Too brief.

“Laughter should suggest discovery,” the instructor said. “Not performance. As though something has just occurred to you, and you're not sure what it is yet.”

We practiced in pairs.

Herb told me a story about a historical brewing accident that resulted in what he described as “unexpected fermentation.”

I laughed. It sounded like I had heard it before, which I hadn't, but that seemed worse.

He shook his head.

“You anticipated it,” he said.

“I didn’t know the ending.”

“You knew there would be one.”

I tried again.

By the end of the week, I had received two commendations, which I displayed mentally.

“Noticeable Improvement in Visible Affect.”

“Consistent Application of Outdoor Contentment.”

The fines stopped.

Then, one afternoon, it happened.

I was in the yard.

Sunlight. Light breeze. A neighbor approaching from a distance that allowed for preparation.

I set my shoulders. Relaxed my jaw. Let the expression arrive without forcing it.

When they waved, I responded.

Not too quickly.

Not too slowly.

My mouth adjusted.

My eyes followed.

Something aligned.

I felt it.

Not the feeling itself, but the absence of effort.

For the first time, it didn’t feel like I was doing anything.

It just happened.

The neighbor smiled back, visibly relieved.

We passed each other without incident.

That evening, the final notice arrived.

It was hand-delivered.

No envelope.

No greeting.

Just a single sheet of paper.

There was a photograph.

I was standing in my yard.

Perfect posture. Relaxed shoulders. Open expression.

The chart had been included again, but this time something had been circled.

“Unrestrained Joy.”

Below it, in clean, careful handwriting:

“This level of visible satisfaction may create unrealistic expectations for surrounding residents.”

There was a number at the bottom.

It was not modest.

Caroline read it over my shoulder.

“Well,” she said, after a moment. “At least now we know.”

“Know what?” I asked.

She folded the paper once, then again.

“You can’t win,” she said.

I went back outside.

The light was still there.

The same breeze.

I stood in the yard for a while, considering the options available to me.

Then I adjusted my face.

Just enough to remain in good standing.