What you learn from colleagues left behind

I chatted with an ex-colleague over IM today. Though she is, like so many exes of our personal lives, not someone with whom I have regular correspondence, she's also a rare touchpoint into an old life; a portal into what could've been, had I stayed.

After the typical chitchat covering respective travel and significant others, I finally got around to asking: "how's the bank?"

She got me up to date on the recent hirings and firings; who got promoted and who up and left.

And then she admitted what I had no idea she felt:
"I want to leave," she confessed, "but I feel stuck."

My heart fell - because up until that point, I thought she liked the gig.

I pointed out to her that few people are as stuck as they feel, and that the perfect job is out there for her. "Believe me when I tell you, it doesn't have to be this way."

She came back with the obvious reasons against it: a comfortable salary and weeks of upcoming planned vacation.
"If I keep my head down and ignore most of it," she explained, "I can coast by for now... until I can figure it out."

After we talked about it, she ultimately signed off with, "welcome to my life."
I responded by reminding her, "I know. It was once mine too."

Millionaires Aren't Made by Saving

You see it all the time: the “how to become a millionaire” articles and books all sharing one big theme:

Saving.

Marie Claire’s article “How to Become a Millionaire – Easy Money Making” recommends “withdrawing 80 percent of your take-home pay for three months and dividing it into envelopes marked long-term savings, short-term savings, rent, clothing allowance, food, cable bills, partying, etc.” (“Becoming a millionaire by 30,” they assure you, is “easier than you think.”)

In his book “A Million Bucks by 30,” Alan Corey talks about how he’s frugal almost to a fault, so “by pinching pennies… he watched a pittance blossom into a seven-digit bank account” in about eight years, earning a modest salary. Pretty impressive, right?

What does this advice have in common?

It leads the reader to believe that, by being a slave to their savings plan, they too can join the millionaire ranks in less than a decade.

And while it’s true that that strategy will almost certainly get you there over the course of your life (yes, I do realize that saving can and does make people millionaires) the fraud of the message lies in one simple fact: saving alone won’t get you there by 30. Telling readers otherwise is outright deceitful. If you want it in the first half of your life rather than the last, millions are not made through savings.

Basic math reveals the impossibility: to build up a million-dollar bank roll between graduating college at 22 and celebrating your 30^th birthday – and doing so solely through saving – you’d have to be earning…

$125,000 per year.

And saving just about every penny.

($1,000,000 / 8 years… $125,000)

Now, obviously this doesn’t include interest – you’d be earning some, right? Let’s say you made some exceptionally good investment decisions and earned an average of 8%. Then you’d have to save less, right? Well, you’re right – at 8%, you’d only have a save a mere $95,000 every single year.

(Which is no big deal, really, since you followed all that good advice, and are busy “pinching pennies” and “living within your means,” right?)

To become a millionaire by 30, by 40, by 50 – whatever – you have to do a lot more than buy the bargain brand toothpaste and live off Ramen (which, oh by the way, our aforementioned Alan Corey actually did. More incredulously, he actually chalks his success up to this habit and proudly mentions it no fewer than three times in his book. Eat Ramen every day, is his message, and you too can manage to save $95,000 of your $40,000 annual salary...)

The thing people don’t tell you is this: numbers will always be numbers, and a million dollars doesn’t manifest out of spare change over the course of 8 years. It can happen in the long run, sure, but here’s the real way to go about it more efficiently:

Create or transfer something of real value.

Remember that hypothetical 8% you earned on savings earlier? Forget about that 8%. If you’re shooting for zero to a million in under a decade, your new figure should start at 50%. That’s what you should be earning on your “savings,” which, by the way, aren't in stocks or bonds so much as they should be in small businesses - preferably your own. Think about things more aggressively, stop sweating over the difference of several cents at the grocery store, and start thinking bigger - and more creatively - about the value you could yield.

So, while Alan Corey did really earn a million dollars by the time he reached 30, the reality of it all is that he did it through real estate and local bars – not through Ramen noodles. Sorry to say, Alan, but you could’ve saved yourself – and your heart – the sodium and probably still made it to six digits eating proper food.

And until he – and Marie Claire – start telling it straight, I want you, dearest reader, to know the truth:

If you want to become one by 30, millionaires are not made by saving.

They’re made through making value.

Letting passion permeate professionalism

I think people are far too buttoned up in life.  

Now, to be entirely clear, I might be the most critical person in the room when it comes to advocating awareness and application of basic professional etiquette. (While I am especially critical of women - and am unable to whole-heartedly interact with four inch heels, short skirts, heavy make up or cleavage - I also take it personally when folks use poor grammar, fall apart in interviews, or gossip.)

That aside, once you've got the basics down and can interact with other people on a sufficiently appropriate level, loosen up. We don't laugh enough at work. We should laugh. And hug. And, when our colleagues ask about our weekends, we should talk about it genuinely - over lunch rather than hovering over the coffee pot. 

I was in a hot yoga class tonight, and as I was holding a pose and otherwise trying to focus on my breathing, a thought crossed my mind:

does the instructor (who was male and not un-hot himself) find women in his class attractive?

My first thought, in response, was: ohh, KG! That’s so unprofessional.
My second thought, however, was:  well, jeez, he certainly should! 

So then I got to thinking (which you’re not supposed to do in yoga to begin with; I find that this is the most difficult part of my practice)... we are all, at our core, real people. We all have biases, emotions, and - yes - chemistry that drive our decisions in life, including our professional paths.

So while I don't want my yoga instructor copping a feel as he adjusts my pose or sitting around comparing notes with fellow yogis, I also asked: is he supposed to shut down his normal, human elements? Of course not. He should celebrate them. I think that someone who's devoted his life to physial wellbeing, bodies and form should truly and deeply appreciate them.

Objectively.
Subjectively.

He should let himself enjoy the elements of his work that led him to it in the first place.
He should let himself operate as a human being, and indulge his human tendencies.
We all should.

Letting passion trump professionalism makes our work more rewarding; we allow ourselves to operate according to our inner truths rather than the rules by which our work is governed, the former of which is more closely aligned with our happiness.

It's the doctor who tells her terminal patient: skip the treatment; spend your last few months at a beach home with your children.

It's the teacher who takes the child of an unhappy home under her wing.

It's the airport employee who refuses to load an emaciated dog onto a flight. (And gets fired for it.)

It's everyone who lets instincts trump instruction; who lets their own feelings come to their surface and who surrenders to their need to be human.

It's all of us, on the inside; it should be more and more of us, in practice.

Experience versus Aesthetics

One of the best examples I have in making the argument between aesthetics and experience – and, to be clear, there are many – is The Platform Bed. 
 
 J and I once had a platform bed. Well, he had a platform bed. He brought it into my life when we first met and, in the days of early courtship, it was actually pretty cool. I liked that it made the room look modern and sophisticated; I liked it because it was trendy, sexy, and so delightfully anti-suburbia. But mostly I probably liked it because I had my own bed to go home to.

But then we moved in together, and it suddenly became my bed, too – like some kind of awkward stepchild you acquire through marriage. Except that , over time, I openly disliked it, rather than feeling it in clandestine. As such, I had no qualms about my plans regarding the bed’s future: it had to go.

The problem with the platform is actually exactly what you would think: while it looks incredibly cool in a room – I’m the first to admit that the minimalism and artful lines never did get old – the reality of interacting with it was anything but. Getting out of bed each morning was a task. In my early 20’s, I was made to feel like some senior citizen, heaving my body up against gravity each morning only after an excessive amount of effort and will power. Then there was the other critical factor: the bed made our dog eye level with us. This is fine until a.) it’s that time in the morning when he decides it’s time to eat, you think it’s too early to get up, and he's set to convince you otherwise or b.) the moment you realize that three truly is a crowd.

When J moved to Chicago, he left the bed. When I moved a year later, I did too.
I think we all knew it was time to move on.

Every time I see a platform bed in a catalogue, I still feel a little seduced by the sensuality and simplicity. They’re beautiful pieces. They make your room beautiful. And, in the beginning, they make you feel beautiful.

But then I remember the experience of having one, and I again feel fortunate to have a place to sleep that's conducive to me.

On clubs and crowded trains

Every so often, I like to go clubbing. This surprises some people who know me, as I have evidently been moderately successful at getting folks to see me as a professional, mature individual. But yes -  sometimes - I like to go clubbing.

When I go, I don't wear suggestive clothes. I'm often the girl in the group dressed like she just came from dinner with her folks. I often drink soda water and lime, so I don’t go to get drunk. I dance, usually, but not with anybody in particular, so I don’t go to solicit attention, either.

(I have likely painted an image of being that super dud dancing alone in the corner holding her drink to her face and anxiously sucking her straw. I’m not. At least, I’d like to think I’m not. I go with girlfriends and we dance together. )

So why do I go clubbing? I go, I realized, because it’s one of the few places where you can be incredibly close with a lot of other people. That experience is, for me, is a deeply satisfying one. I feel comforted by closeness.

For me, there's something extraordinarily psychologically soothing about physical proximity. I am deeply affected by “space,” particularly my own, and I find closeness to be tremendously sensual – that is, pertaining to the senses – more than sexual, even when it pertains to clubs. The gratification of crowded spaces holds true in almost any setting with almost any group of people, sexually appealing or not.

I love crowded restaurants. I love tiny apartments; I love roommates. I love busy sidewalks and farmers markets. I feel a sense of connection with fellow passengers on a plane. I love sleeping right against someone else, under a blanket so heavy that my companion inevitably becomes too hot.

I feel disappointed – almost anxious – when a space is too big or there aren’t as many people in it as I sense there should be. I hate king size beds and superfluous square footage. There are few things more depressing than empty city streets, and I find it disheartening to dine in an almost-empty restaurant.

When I shared this with my friend Chris over brunch one Sunday, observing that I felt the restaurant needed not only more diners, but more tables, he laughed. And then, curious as I explained my love of nearness, he asked,

“Do you intentionally choose the most crowded car on the train, too?’
“No,” I mused, “I don’t do that. But if I find myself on a crowded car, I secretly relish it.”

(Incidentally, I would rather take the train or the bus than drive myself. It’s for a number of reasons, but one of them is definitely this.)

For me, one of life’s most beautiful elements is experiences shared with others, and the implied intimacy. And the simpler and more sensual the experience, the more gratifying it is to me.   

Why I hate Vegas (it's not what you think)

Vegas and I don't see eye to eye.

We were destined, from the beginning, to exist apart from one another. For me, Vegas' role will always be the acquaintance kept at arm’s length rather than the hot fling she is for everyone else.

Vegas embodies everything I dislike. It is not because I'm opposed to gambling - I think gambling is fine, in and of itself (and, quite frankly, each time someone writes off my feelings for Vegas as an issue I must instead have with gambling, I kind of write off their intelligence.) Vegas has an identity that runs deeper than gambling. Everyone knows what the issues are; few take the time to name them.

So, in the interest of clarify, here's my critique of Vegas:

·         It’s fake. The lighting is artificial. There are waterfalls falling out of and into nowhere. They pump oxygen into the air. (While I’m at odds with just about all the Vegas properties, it should be said that The Venetian’s “always-3 pm sunlight gondola” gives me some serious heebie-jeebies.) To be clear, I do know that, for many Vegas visitors, the charm lies in the fantasy. People often try to win me over by saying: “it’s like Disneyland!” (Often they emphasize their point by adding “…for adults!”) And yes, I can see the similarity, but that fact would carry a lot more weight if I liked Disneyland. But I don’t. (That shouldn’t surprise you – again, I too see the similarity...)

·          It's maliciously deceptive. This is deeper than artificiality alone. I know that the people around me are being seduced and duped, and I don’t like that feeling. It's like sitting in a bar and watching a nice girl fall for the good-looking, charming guy who dresses well, smells nice, and tells her what she wants to hear. It’s a sinking feeling to later watch her leave with him. She sees him as the materialization of a dream. He sees her one of countless girls with whom he plays out this choreography every single night. And to suggest that she “knew what she was doing" - just like Vegas visitors - while it may be true, doesn’t ease my discomfort that she’s being had – just like so many people who make mistakes because they’ve “fallen for” the casino environment. Knowing this is happening isn't "part of the fun" for me.

·          It's creepy. The "Big Brother" element weirds me out. Folks marvel at the sophistication of Vegas hospitality. I sleep in until 2 pm and the maids will never once knock on my door. The moment I leave my room for more than 5 minutes, though, my bed's made when I get back. That's not "cool." It's creepy.

·         There is no community. Nearly everyone in Vegas is either transient or paid to be a part of the experience. There is no feeling of depth, and there are few genuine "locals" who can actually vouch for anything without being paid to do so. There are no roots and no relationships. (In other words, everyone may “know your name,” but it’s from a place of showmanship rather than sincerity.)

·         There is no substance. Sure, gambling is obviously the biggest revenue for Vegas. The second biggest, however, is conventions and conferences. If your second largest economic driver is empty space, you don't have a soul. Plain and simple.

·         I don’t like the way it makes me feel. Women aren’t regarded very respectfully in Vegas. We don’t just get checked out by men; we get “valued.” Money buys you a lot in Vegas - to most of the guys strolling the casino floors, every woman is there to be paid off, and they have no qualms about eyeing her accordingly. I don’t like that.

To be brutally honest, my sentiment on Vegas is that it’s a place to escape the real world when the reality you’ve built isn’t good enough. And because I so deeply value the process of investing in a rich reality for ourselves, I will always be incompatible with a place that stands for escapism and emptiness.

Everyone likes hugs

My colleague hates hugs.

At least, that's what he told me and the rest of our team at dinner after we left the office last week. He hates hugs.

He also hates feet and handshakes. "They're gross!" He clarified. And he's right - feet and handshakes can be gross - so I let that one go. But it didn't sit right to allow hugs to be grouped alongside sweaty palms and hairy knuckles. So I started giving him hell. We all did.

I mean, who hates hugs?

I listened while the others chimed in. I laughed along. I cut in where it seemed appropriate. I participated in the overall antics. But even while we chided and played along as though he did, in fact, truly hate hugs, on the inside I was thinking:

"he's lying."

He's either lying, or he's in denial.

Everyone - everyone - likes hugs, somewhere deep in their core. To hug is to indulge in one of life's most beautiful pleasures - a gesture deeply ingrained in our psyche. Recall your mother's embrace after the neighbor kid knocked your ice cream to the ground. Think, too, of the way it felt to wrap your arms around a much-missed lover; the drawn-out good-bye to a friend you're not sure you'll ever see again. All of these moments, caught up in a hug. To say they aren't a part of you is to deny a part of yourself altogether.

I felt very deeply for my colleague as he spoke. Amidst the laughing, I felt skeptical. And concerned. And determined to change his perspective.

He's a pretty typical guy: in his 30's (I have a horrible time at guessing ages so I tend to stick with ranges that span ten years. He's about 32-42. Ish.) He's single. He owns a home in central Massachusetts, where our project happens to be.

When I once told him that I thought the area was lovely, he laughed.
He laughed in the way people do when they sense they're being made fun of.
"Yea, well, it's no Vegas."
"I'd rather be here than Vegas," I countered: "Vegas is fake. And pretentious."
(Since that day, the team has chided me for my love of all things "real." Which is okay by me, because it's true.)

He wears a blue shirt every single day. Not the same blue shirt - he has several; they're just all blue. When I once called him out on this, he growled, "I refuse to wear any other color."

He once returned brow-beaten from a meeting that didn't go well, sat down at his desk and lamented:
"Maybe they just didn't like my shirt."
"Well," I chimed in, "that shirt is pretty risque."
It was Brooks Brothers. And blue.
He spent the next several minutes agonizing over how serious I was before I finally convinced him I was actually trying to make him feel better.

He likes dogs and hates sushi. He drinks coffee in the morning. He cheers for his home football team. His first name is one syllable, short for something that's been around forever.

A typical guy. Almost weirdly typical.

And therefore - I wagered - a person who does, in fact, like hugs.

"At the end of this project," I announced, at dinner, in a lull of laughter, "I'm going to give you a hug."
"No you're not." He countered, "I'll take the week off if that's your plan. I'm serious."

And he looked it.

So instead of making him anxious for three months, I gave him one the next day. I did it right after I'd packed up to leave for my flight home. To be entirely honest, I had to work up some courage, after all the "hate" talk the night before. I put my winter coat on, so it wasn't so scary, and after a moment of hesitation, I leaned to where he was sitting at his desk, working, and hugged him, awkwardly, from the side.

And he did not pull away.