Wealth

Once, someone was trying to get me to join his networking scheme. His initial come-on was asking me if I wanted to be rich. When I said no, he was stumped. That was definitely not the answer he was expecting. He actually stopped trying to convince me. I bet that was the quickest sales talk he had ever had.

If he had asked me that question when I was ten years old, I might have said yes and he would have found a willing networker. When I was young, I dreamed of being rich—Veronica Lodge- Richie Rich- Scrooge McDuck- rich. I dreamed of the jet planes I’d own and the closets I’d fill with designer clothes and the extra cash I would have to buy those hi-tech push button pencil cases that turned into semi-robots. I wanted it all. And so I would spend my time thinking about what I would do with the millions I would one day win. (There was never a question of me actually working for my millions. I just wanted to win them.) I planned it all. I’d give one half to my family, the other half to charity, the other other half I’d save and the other other half I’d spend entirely on myself. I would dream that way until I realized that a whole could only ever have two halves. And so I would rattle the list off in my head and then decide how many parts I’d divide my millions into. That was hard work, considering I was not particularly enthusiastic about math.

Since I realized I could not win anything I had not bought tickets for, I learned to save the money that did come my way. I would get my Christmas money and give them to my dad. He was my banker. If I needed money, I would “withdraw” from him and he would make a record of how much I had taken out. I actually loved asking him how much money I had. It made me feel like I was one step closer to my millions.

I’m not quite sure if I was born that way or if I picked it up along the way. My grandmother would look at my hands and say in that esoterically factual way that all grandmothers speak that I would keep my money well and that I was not “gastador.” It must have been the mole on my left palm. I still haven’t figured it out yet.

Like all of my great big passions, however, my burning desire to be a millionaire one day just sort of passed. I don’t know when or how it did, but it just passed. I picked a course in college without actually thinking how much I’d make. And I certainly never picked a career so I could earn much. My friend thinks I’m the worst salesperson/businesswoman she knows because I never care about profit. 

I guess I outgrew my desire when I realized that there were few things I really wanted in life that I could actually pay for and many things that I could actually live without. Sometimes it feels as if the world is always trying to get me to shop more, to pay more, to earn more so I can be happier. But strangely, the richest and the most famous do not seem to be any happier than the rest of us. They have more things, certainly, and they’ve been to more places and they certainly dress better but there is not one report of them actually having a more joyful life. 

And I am old enough to know that I’d rather be happy than rich. I’d rather be more than have more. I’d rather give more than take more. Life’s too short for me to spend my time making myself rich.  I don’t want to have to live out the rest of my days on this earth thinking how much I’ll be spending or how much I’ll be making. I certainly won’t squander my money or waste it on some frivolous luxury. But I will try not to hold it so tightly that I won’t get to enjoy what little I have saved or share what little I have earned. With wealth, I’ve learned that it’s not how much I have that makes me a better person. But it’s how much I am willing to give up so that others can have more that will make the difference.