* * *
For that matter, one of my own favorite “modest splurges” was something that wouldn’t appeal to most people—but for me meant getting my hands on something I’d coveted for years. I called Books of Wonder, a famous children’s bookstore in Manhattan, and ordered the “Wizard’s Super Special,” the complete set of the fifteen Oz books by L. Frank Baum. Two weeks later, I got a huge thrill when I opened the large box. The hardback set had a unified design, with matching spines, gorgeous covers, and the original color illustrations.
Now, positive psychologists might argue that I’d adapt to my purchase. Soon I’d be accustomed to owning these books, they’d sit on a shelf and gather dust, and I’d be no better off than I was before. I disagree. Because I have a real passion for children’s literature, I knew these books would give me a boost every time I saw them. After all, I keep a big stack of the old, beat-up Cricket magazines I had as a child, and just seeing them on the shelf makes me happy.
As always, the secret was to “Be Gretchen” and to choose wisely. What makes me happy is to spend money on the things I value—and it takes self-knowledge and discipline to discover what I really want, instead of parroting the desires of other people. One of the purchases that made my father happiest was a pinball machine. He’d played hours of pinball as a boy, and one of his childhood dreams was to have his own so he could play whenever he wanted, for free. This isn’t a purchase that would have made everyone happy, but it made him extremely happy.
While I was thinking hard about the relationship between money and happiness, I struck up a conversation with a fellow guest at a bridal shower. I told her that I was trying to figure out ways to “Buy some happiness.” (As I explained the issue, it began to dawn on me, dimly, that I might be becoming a happiness bore.)
She became quite indignant at my suggestion. “That’s so wrong!” she said. “Money can’t buy happiness!”
“You don’t think so?”
“I’m the perfect example. I don’t make much money. A few years back, I took my savings and bought a horse. My mother and everyone told me I was crazy. But that horse makes me incredibly happy—even though I end up spending all my extra money on him.”
“But,” I said, confused, “money did make you happy. It makes you so happy to have a horse!”
“But I don’t have any money,” she answered. “I spent it all.”
“Right, because you used it to buy a horse.”
She shook her head and gave up on me.
In some cases, though, when I tried to “Buy some happiness,” it didn’t work. I’d call this the “expensive-gym-membership effect,” after the futile tendency to pay a lot for a gym membership with the thought, “Gosh, this costs so much, I’ll feel like I have to go to the gym!”
I see the expensive-gym-membership effect when I pay money for something as a way to encourage myself to make time for something fun. For example, I went to three stores to hunt down the combination glue/sealer/ finish Mod Podge, because I wanted to experiment with découpage. I really want to do it. But I bought that Mod Podge ages ago, and I’ve never used it. I want to take time for creative projects, but merely spending money on an art supply won’t make it a priority. I have to decide to make time—and apparently I haven’t. (Using Mod Podge can be another resolution for Happiness Project II.) Along the same lines, a workaholic friend of mine bought a fancy new tennis racquet because he wants to play more tennis, but he still hasn’t used it. The tennis racquet is an expression of his desire to change something in his life, but just making a purchase won’t accomplish that. He should have concentrated on fixing his calendar, not on finding the right racquet.
“Buy some happiness,” of course, has its limits. I knew I’d better not overlook the effects of the hedonic treadmill, which quickly transforms delightful luxuries into dull necessities. Indulging in a modest splurge would give me a happiness jolt only if I did it rarely. Take room ser vice. Until my honeymoon, I’d never had room ser vice in my life—and it was a thrill. But if I traveled for business and got room ser vice frequently, it wouldn’t be a treat anymore.
Because money permits a constant stream of luxuries and indulgences, it can take away their savor, and by permitting instant gratification, money shortcuts the happiness of anticipation. Scrimping, saving, imagining, planning, hoping—these stages enlarge the happiness we feel.
Even a modest pleasure can be a luxury if it’s scarce enough—ordering coffee at a restaurant, buying a book, or watching TV—which is why deprivation is one of the most effective, although unenjoyable, cures for the hedonic treadmill. A friend told me that when she lived in Russia in the 1990s, the hot water would periodically stop working for weeks at a time. She said that very few experiences in her life have matched the happiness she felt on the days when the hot water started working again. But now that she’s back in the United States, where her hot water has never failed, she never thinks about it.
The hedonic treadmill means that spending often isn’t a satisfying path to happiness, but nevertheless, money can help. My father still talks about the day he realized that he could afford to pay someone to mow the lawn. Some of the best things in life aren’t free.
Another way to think about money’s effect is in terms of the First Splendid Truth, as part of the “atmosphere of growth” that’s so important to happiness. We need an atmosphere of spiritual growth, and as much as some people deny it, material growth is also very satisfying.
We’re very sensitive to change. We measure our present against our past, and we’re made happy when we see change for the better. In one study, people were asked whether they’d rather have a job that paid $30,000 in year one, $40,000 in year two, and $50,000 in year three or a job that paid $60,000, then $50,000 then $40,000. In general, people preferred the first option, with its raises—despite the fact that at the end of the three years, they would have earned only $120,000 instead of $150,000. Their decision might seem irrational, but in fact, the people who chose the first option understood the importance of growth to happiness. People are very sensitive to relative changes in their condition, for better or worse.
A sense of growth is so important to happiness that it’s often preferable to be progressing to the summit rather than to be at the summit. Neither a scientist nor a philosopher but a novelist, Lisa Grunwald, came up with the most brilliant summation of this happiness principle: “Best is good, better is best.”
One challenge of parenthood that I hadn’t tackled in April, though perhaps I should have, was setting limits on buying treats for my children. For example, as a surprise, I bought Eliza a big book of optical illusions. As I expected, she loved the book—pored over it, looked at it with her friends, kept it out on her bedside table. I was so pleased with myself for choosing it for her. One day, not long after, I was in a drugstore that had a rack of cheap children’s books. I spotted a book of optical illusions and almost bought it for Eliza; she’d enjoyed the other book so much. Then I stopped myself. She already had a book with three hundred illusions; this book probably didn’t have much new. But even beyond that, I wondered if having two books of optical illusions might, in fact, dim Eliza’s pleasure in the first book. It wouldn’t seem as magical and definitive.
The head of Eliza’s school told a story about a four-year-old who had a blue toy car he loved. He took it everywhere, played with it constantly. Then when his grandmother came to visit, she bought him ten toy cars, and he stopped playing with the cars altogether. “Why don’t you play with your cars?” she asked. “You loved your blue car so much.” “I can’t love lots of cars,” he answered.
It’s easy to make the mistake of thinking that if you have something you love or there’s something you want, you’ll be happier with more.
BUY NEEDFUL THINGS.
When I began to pay attention to people’s relationship to money, I recognized two different approaches to buying: “underbuying” and “overbuying.” I’m an underbuyer.
As a
n underbuyer, I delay making purchases or buy as little as possible. I buy saline solution, which I use twice a day, one little bottle at a time. I scramble to buy items like a winter coat or a bathing suit after the point at which I need them. I’m suspicious of buying things with very specific uses—suit bags, hand cream, hair conditioner, rain boots, Kleenex (why not just use toilet paper to blow your nose?). I often consider buying an item, then decide, “I’ll get this some other time” or “Maybe we don’t really need this.” As an underbuyer, I often feel stressed because I don’t have the things I need. I make a lot of late-night runs to the drugstore. I’m surrounded with things that are shabby, don’t really work, or aren’t exactly suitable.
I gaze in wonder at the antics of my overbuyer friends. Overbuyers often lay in huge supplies of slow-use items like shampoo or cough medicine. They buy things like tools or high-tech gadgets with the thought “This will probably come in handy someday.” They make a lot of purchases before they go on a trip or celebrate a holiday. They throw things away—milk, medicine, even cans of soup—because they’ve hit their expiration date. They buy items with the thought “This will make a great gift!” without having a recipient in mind. Like me, overbuyers feel stressed. They’re oppressed by the number of errands they feel obliged to do and by the clutter and waste often created by their overbuying.
After I posted about these two approaches, many underbuyers and overbuyers posted comments. People had no trouble recognizing themselves in my descriptions.
* * *
I tend to be an overbuyer because underbuying makes me feel stressed and disorganized. I like it when my girls have more than enough pairs of tights, when we have a two-week supply of paper towels on hand, when I have a full bottle of shampoo at the ready should I run out. Running out of tissues or milk or diapers makes me feel like a poor excuse for a mother. I love that feeling of coming home from Costco and putting everything away and feeling fully stocked.
I’m an underbuyer, and those 15-year-old L.L. Bean pajamas were just fine until the day all of the elastic fell out, all at once…
I’m a huge underbuyer and used to feel very proud of myself because of it. That was until I realized it was more of an obsession than a choice. I rarely have backup supplies like toothpaste or soap. I usually leave buying the backups until just hours before I’m about to run out. I used to be a performer so I think that’s where I got my frugal training. But now it’s hard to break this pattern. However, I’m happy to say that I recently let myself buy 6 rolls of paper towels instead of the 2 pack I usually get and also 3 new facecloths. And all of sudden I felt incredibly wealthy. I was surprised at how giddy I became with such simple things.
* * *
I knew that I’d be happier if I made a mindful effort to thwart my underbuying impulse and instead worked to buy what I needed. For instance, I ended my just-in-time policy for restocking toilet paper. One of my Secrets of Adulthood is “Keep a roll of toilet paper tucked away someplace,” so we never actually ran out, but we teetered on the dreary brink.
I mentioned this problem to Jamie. “We’re like Walmart,” he said. “We keep all our capital working for us instead of sitting on a lot of inventory.”
“Well,” I said, “now we’re going to invest in some redundant supply.” Moderation is pleasant to the wise, but toilet paper was something I wanted to keep on hand. This kind of little annoyance puts a surprisingly big drag on happiness. As Samuel Johnson remarked, “To live in perpetual want of little things is a state, not indeed of torture, but of constant vexation.”
Another thing that I really needed was white T-shirts, because I wear them practically every day. I enjoy shopping only when I’m with my mother, so I waited to buy my T-shirts until my mother was visiting from Kansas City. I wanted T-shirts that were soft, stretchy, not too thin, V-necked, and long-sleeved, and to me, tracking down and buying such shirts seemed like an overwhelming challenge. My mother was undaunted. “We’ll go to Bloomingdale’s,” she decided.
Though I felt dazed the minute I entered the store, my mother walked purposefully from one area to the next. As she began her systematic inspection, I trailed along behind her and carried the shirts she’d pulled out. After she’d considered every white shirt on the floor, I tried on—conservative estimate—twenty shirts. I bought eight.
My mother had joined with zeal my quest for the perfect white T-shirt, but when she saw the stack of monochrome cotton at the cash register, she asked, “Are you sure you don’t want any other colors or styles? This is a lot of white shirts.”
“Well…” I hesitated. Did I really want this many white shirts? Then I remembered a study showing that people think they like variety more than they do. When asked to pick a menu of snacks for the upcoming weeks, they picked a variety, but if they chose week to week what to eat, they picked their favorite snack over and over.
In the store, it seemed like a good idea to have a variety of colors. But I knew from experience that when I stood in front of my closet, I always wanted to pull out the same things: white V-neck T-shirt; black yoga pants or jeans; and running shoes.
Buy needful things. “Yes, I just want white,” I said firmly.
Inspired by my shirt success, I replaced our leaky blender. I bought a personalized return-address stamp. I’d realized that the paradoxical consequence of being an underbuyer was that I had to shop more often, while buying extras meant fewer trips to the cash register. I bought batteries, Band-Aids, lightbulbs, diapers—things I knew we would need eventually. I finally ordered business cards, which I’d been putting off for years. I was inspired when, at a meeting, someone handed me the best-looking business card I’d ever seen. I got all the information so I could order a copycat version for myself.
My decision-making process for ordering a business card showed me that not only was I an “underbuyer,” I was also a “satisficer”—as opposed to a “maximizer.” Satisficers (yes, satisficers) are those who make a decision or take action once their criteria are met. That doesn’t mean they’ll settle for mediocrity; their criteria can be very high, but as soon as they find the hotel, the pasta sauce, or the business card that has the qualities they want, they’re satisfied. Maximizers want to make the optimal decision. Even if they see a bicycle or a backpack that meets their requirements, they can’t make a decision until after they’ve examined every option, so they can make the best possible choice.
Studies suggest that satisficers tend to be happier than maximizers. Maximizers spend a lot more time and energy to reach a decision, and they’re often anxious about whether they did in fact make the best choice. As a shopper, my mother is a good example of what I’d call a “happy limited maximizer.” In certain distinct categories, she’s a maximizer, and she loves the very process of investigating every possibility. Now that Eliza and Eleanor were going to be flower girls in my sister’s wedding, I knew my mother would love nothing more than to examine every possible dress, just for the fun of it. But too often maximizers find the research process exhausting yet can’t let themselves settle for anything but the best. The difference between the two approaches may be one reason some people find a big city like New York disheartening. If you’re a maximizer in New York City, you could spend months surveying your options for bedroom furniture or even wooden hangers. In Kansas City, even the most zealous maximizer can size up the available options pretty quickly.
Most people are a mix of both. In almost every category, I was a satisficer, and in fact, I often felt guilty about not doing more research before making decisions. In law school, one friend interviewed with fifty law firms before she decided where she wanted to go as a summer associate; I think I interviewed with six. We ended up at the same firm. Once I learned to call myself a “satisficer,” I felt more satisfied with my approach to decision making; instead of feeling lazy and unconscientious, I could call myself prudent. A great example of reframing.
SPEND OUT.
I tend to cling to things—to stuff, to ideas.
I reuse razor blades until they’re dull, I keep my toothbrushes until they’re yellowed and frayed. There is a preppy wabi-sabi to soft, faded khakis and cotton shirts, but it’s not nice to be surrounded by things that are worn out or stained or used up. I often found myself saving things, even when it made no sense. Like those white T-shirts I bought. I’d surmounted the challenge of buying them; then came the challenge of wearing them. When I took them out of the shopping bag and laid them on my shelf—perfectly folded by the salesclerk as I’ve never learned to do—I could feel myself wanting to “save” them in their pristine glory. But not wearing clothes is as wasteful as throwing them away.
As part of my happiness project I wanted to stop hoarding, to trust in abundance, so that I could use things up, give things away, throw things away. Not only that—I wanted to stop worrying so much about keeping score and profit and loss. I wanted to spend out.
A few years ago, my sister gave me a box of beautiful stationery for my birthday. I loved it, but I’d never used it. When I was mailing some photos to the grandparents, I hesitated to use the new stationery because I was “saving” it; but to what better use could it be put? Of course I should use those notes. Spend out.
I looked through my apartment for ways to spend out. The toughest choices I made concerned things that sort of worked: the camera that had lost its zoom function, the label maker that didn’t print properly. I hate waste, but it would probably have cost me as much money (and far more time) to repair these items as to replace them—and using them in their crippled states weighed me down. I replaced them.
My goal wasn’t limited to my treatment of my possessions; it also involved my ideas. For example, when I thought of a great subject for a blog post, I often found myself thinking “That’s a good idea, save it for another day.” Why? Why delay? I needed to trust that there would be more, that I would have great ideas in the future and so should use my best stuff now. Pouring out ideas is better for creativity than doling them out by the teaspoon.