Happiness is the painful process of learning to ask for help, in third grade, when the effects of wrist atrophy took away my ability to lift the chocolate milk cartoon to my lips, and so I simply stopped drinking milk at lunchtime, waiting instead until I got home after school, chugging whatever was in the fridge with mom’s assistance, ignoring her lectures that my friends would be more than happy to help me take sips, being stubborn and stupid proud, because no way was I letting my friends know I needed help with something new, and there was no way someone who can’t lift milk to his mouth would ever be accepted as “cool,” even convincing myself that I could fling the carton up towards my lips with the insides of my weakened wrists, a stunt that ended with a lap full of cold milk, a shame warm face, and then one of my friends, can’t remember who, asking me if I just wanted him to hold the carton for me, the embarrassment of saying yes mixing with the thankfulness of no longer needing to deprive myself for the sake of appearing normal, learning the important lesson that asking for help is not a bad thing—it’s necessary, and as life progressed, asking for help allowed me to reach my fullest potential.