Live Rich or Die Broke?

Breaking news:  Rich people are different from the rest of us. 

They’ve got a lot more money, for one thing.  

(Sorry.  I couldn’t resist.  That’s one of my favorite lines from “A Perfect Murder,” the 1998 remake of Hitchcock’s thriller, “Dial M for Murder.”) 

On the occasions when I ponder the subject of wealth versus reality, that piece of dialogue pretty well sums it up for me.   

Such musings typically surface when I’m in line to buy a Lotto ticket.  So you can imagine my chagrin when I read in an excerpt from Steve Siebold’s book, “How Rich People Think,” his list of 21 Ways Rich People Think Differently.  Item #3 – Average people have a “lottery mentality.” 

I beg your pardon!  Average!  Average!?  Why I’ve just been told this very morning that I’m wild, courageous and brilliant!  OK, it was in a shared post sent to about a bazillion people.  But average!?  I don’t think so.  Not where I live, here in Lake Woebegone. 

Yet there I was going and stopping, pausing and stepping among the run-of-the-mill.  My people.  All of us living out the distinction so coldly laid out by someone who wrote a book and therefore must be smart.  Smarter than we are, the ordinary folk with dollars in our hands. 

The really stupid thing I do is get in line to buy a Lotto ticket when the jackpot gets huge.  You know, when the media starts talking about the biggest payout in Lotto history and shark bites and lightning strikes and weight loss after 60. 

If the odds against hitting a Lotto jackpot aren’t already gargantuan, which they are, the odds against hitting the biggest jackpot in Lotto history are comparable to the odds of Republicans and Democrats shutting up and listening to each other.  You know nano-odds.  Microscopic.  Grain of sand on the beaches of the earth.  Slight. 

Then I saw a related piece of research on the Science Channel.  Lab geeks demonstrated that humans remain optimistic in the face of facts to the contrary.  In their experiment subjects were first asked to rate the likelihood that they would succumb to each of 80 negative life events.  For example, what are the odds you’ll have a broken leg in your lifetime?  The schmo at the keyboard enters 3%.  The computer comes back and tells her the odds are actually three times greater - 11%.  Next, she’s asked to estimate how likely it is she’ll develop high blood pressure.  She guesses 34% and the computer says no, it’s actually only 24%. 

Here’s the kick.  When she goes back through the list with her newly acquired information, she adjusts her thinking to match any scenario that’s rosier.   

But, if she started with a brighter outlook than the actuarial tables foretold, she kept it!  She didn’t change her expectations!  In spite of the facts, she held onto her more optimistic / less realistic view of her future.   

That’s my homies and me in the Lotto line.   

Siebold also says that the average person thinks money is the root of all evil, while rich people think poverty is said root.  Those of us who fight the battle of correcting long-standing and intractable misquotes know that it’s the love of money we’ve gotta eschew.   

Nevertheless your humble servant, moi, will stand with the fat cats on this one.

Ironically, that’s another thing separating me from the treasures I deserve – it’s the built-in guilt that rides sidecar with the money, and the belief that I’m supposed to make the world a better place.  Oh!  Poor, poor, middling me.  If only I’d been raised with that wealthy, airline-safety mentality:  take care of yourself first.  

That’s not greed, or selfishness.  That’s rich.  But all I want to do is share.  Oh well.  Too bad for me (and my husband) and for those who would be our beneficiaries.  They’re just not gonna get that much. 

So there it is – I’m not rich, and much as I’d like to maintain my rose-tinted view, I’m not like rich people. 

Still there are smart people who write books for common folks like me. 

Watch this space for an upcoming review of Pollan and Levine’s radical four-part approach to financial planning, “Die Broke.”

 

Power Napping for Self-Improvement

I’m not asking for a thump on the head.   

But some guys have all the luck, don’t they?   

Maybe you saw that guy on CBS Sunday Morning who took a knock to the noggin and woke up with a talent for playing the piano.  And he can really play - not just “Heart and Soul,” either.   

He woke up from a mild concussion, felt the urge, sat down, composed and played like a son-of-a-gun.  He says now he sees the notes, not just on the page, but also in the air.  That’s a big payoff for a small smack.  Hooray for him. 

But it’s irritating to those of us who deal with the simultaneous impediments of trying to learn to play the piano past the point when our synapses have ossified, coupled with an aversion to taking a hit.  

My husband offered to help me out with this, but I think he was making fun.  Something in his eyes.  Too eager.  He salivated.  I can only hope he’s not planning an “accident” to do me a favor! 

Here’s the dilemma:  I want to play, but all that study and practice – whew!  I just don’t know if I have it in me. 

It’s like that quote I saw online the other day:  “I’ll do anything to lose weight – except diet and exercise.”  

Then there’s that other guy on the Science Channel who had a stroke and came back an artist.  

Since coming home from the hospital, this guy has painted every surface available to him.  Literally.  He’s on his fifth layer.  And he’s not using antique white.  He maps out poster-sized sections of walls, ceilings, floors, furniture and countertops, and creates.  His living room looks like a mob of muralists threw up on it.   

The mystic in me can’t help wondering if he ever wished he could just paint all the time instead of being a day trader or whatever his regular job was.  Rod Serling warned us about that sort of thing. 

Doctors speculate that his stroke created an imbalance between the excitation processors and inhibition suppressors in his brain.  Painter excitation is winning and this poor schmuck can’t stop himself from artistic expression.  I don’t think I want to go that far.  

Of course no one in her right mind would go to that length, even for her art.  But a slothful person does look for miracles. 

That’s why I read with interest the new research saying that imagining practicing the piano, or shooting baskets, or “virtually rehearsing” just about anything produces improvements in that skill approximating those accrued from actual practice.  Really.  If only that could apply to housework.  Cause I can visualize a clean house and it’s nice.  Smells good, shines and everything.  But I don’t like to visualize the actual cleaning.  That must be why we’re all caked over. 

To get the full benefit of your imagination, you have to visualize the activity for the same amount of time you would put in to doing it.  What’s the good in that?  If a person has to visualize practicing her scales in order to procrastinate practicing her scales, well, that little chore just lost its appeal.  That’s like the commuter stuck in traffic who takes a 20-minute detour to avoid a five-minute delay. 

On the other hand, innovative dream researchers have now demonstrated that reflection on a task while asleep and dreaming produces the same brain waves as actually completing the task.  So, if we dream of playing onstage at Carnegie Hall, it boosts our ability to play there one day.  This is the ultimate in multi-tasking.  Lucid dreamers hone their talents while catching their z’s.   

One can extrapolate that gainful achievements await the daydreamer, the blank stare-er, and the while-er away of time.  At last!  A regimen that plays to my in borne aptitudes.  I’m feeling excited about my potential accomplishments! 

I could start the day by picturing some time on the treadmill.  My chair at the computer is comfortable enough to accommodate reverie on the memoir I’m writing.  Next I’ll nap next to the piano.  Laundry?  A mental rehearsal!  Soon, it’ll be time to envision dinner.   

I’m liking this.  It fits my lifestyle.  It’s the next generation of armchair quarterback:  naptime artiste.