Two just-released, scientific studies gave me reason to smile through my chapped lips this week.

The first was a report published in Time magazine (via the European Heart Journal) suggesting that having one to two alcoholic beverages per day can be as beneficial as exercise in preventing heart disease.

Be still, my left ventricle!!

And, get this – combined with exercise, drinking a highball or two can reduce your risk of heart attack by 50 percent. That’s a 20 percent LOWER risk than teetotaling gym-goers or moderately imbibing couch potatoes.

As someone who puts in 30 minutes on the treadmill religiously every morning (OK, not religiously – unless we’re talking about one of those “come to church when you feel like it – no biggie” denominations), I was elated to reintroduce the cocktail to my weeknight after-work ritual. (“Pour one for the ticker, barkeep!”)

Even better, the report indicates that the health benefits apply only to people age 45 and over. (“Step aside, you over-perfumed 20-somethings standing three-deep at the bar. Mama needs her Cardiac Cosmo!”)

Results of the second study, compliments of Dartmouth College in New Hampshire and the Warwick University of Great Britain, were widely reported in the news under headlines like “Middle Age is Truly Depressing” or “Midlife Misery Spans the Globe.”

Researchers who analyzed extensive data from a whopping 2 million people living in 80 countries concluded, beyond a reasonable doubt, that happiness and depression levels are age-related, and that most of us “bottom out,” on the average, at 44.

Yee-haw! I’ve got 8 years on the upside of the bell curve!

I must confess, however, I don’t remember being the slightest bit depressed at 44. Not a tad gloomy or blue. Never did I complain, “Man, 44 is the pits. Even worse than 43!”

Truth be told, I don’t remember 44 at all. With no point of reference, milestone or life marker, 44 was a lot like 28. Or 37. Or 51. Benign? Yes. Forgettable? Sure. But depressing? Heck, no. Or – here’s a thought – maybe I was so busy with two kids, a house and a job, I didn’t realize I was in the depths of despair.

According to the report, our happiness levels increase as we exit midlife. Most people, it says, start to climb out of the universal “low ebb” in our 50s. Thus, scientists deduce, a 70-year-old is likely to be as happy as a 20 year-old on the other side of the curve.

Twenty? Excuse me? I don’t recall being a bundle of bliss at 20. An identity-obsessed, Sylvia Plath-reading, confused-about-the-future, Joni Mitchell-listening, never-wanting-kids-in-a-million years bundle of angst, maybe. But happy? Not so much.

And at 70? I suppose I’ll be glad I made it that far (because, at 20, God knows I tested fate a few times.) But will I be truly happy as my future becomes less certain? It depends on extenuating circumstances, don’t you think?

Still, I’m glad to know I have increasingly joyful years ahead. And it’s no surprise to me that life gets more enjoyable, the older you get.

Even at 52, the simplest things can make my day:

I get giddy when I find my keys in the first place I look.

I’m elated when the scale goes down, even by a tenth of a pound.

I’ll smile all the way home when I don’t find a ticket on my car at an expired meter.

When I find a pair of jeans that fit without resorting to bodily contortions, I start shrieking “WOO-HOO!” from the dressing room.

I actually applaud if we get a booth at our favorite restaurant.

When one of my kids says, “You’re right, Mom,” I’ve been known to weep for joy. (It doesn’t happen often, but still.)

Hey! I might be further up the happiness bell curve than I thought. Life is good. Even in midlife.

I don’t know how happy I’ll be at 70. I only hope to get there in good health. And with my nightly Cardiac Cosmo, my odds have just improved by 50 percent!