The Happiness Project (23 page)

INDULGE IN A MODEST SPLURGE.

I didn’t spend enough time thinking about how money could buy me happiness.

I’d always had a vague sense that spending money was self-indulgent and that I should avoid spending money whenever possible. I once spent six very satisfying months living in San Francisco on $5 a day (except when I had to use the Laundromat). Now, however, I decided to find ways to spend to further my happiness goals. Studies show that people’s basic psychological needs include the need to feel secure, to feel good at what they do, to be loved, to feel connected to others, and to have a strong sense of control. Money doesn’t
automatically
fill these requirements, but it sure can
help. People at every level of income can choose to direct their spending in ways that take them closer to happiness—or not.

I wanted to spend money to stay in closer contact with my family and friends; to promote my energy and health; to create a more serene environment in my apartment; to work more efficiently; to eliminate sources of boredom, irritation, and marital conflict; to support causes that I thought important; and to have experiences that would enlarge me. So, category by category, I looked for ways to spend money to support my happiness goals—within reason, of course.

For health and energy: in January, I’d already found a way to spend money to get better exercise. My strength-training workouts were expensive, but I was happy to know that I was doing something important for my long-term health. I also started spending more for food when I had to grab lunch outside our apartment. I’d always congratulated myself when I ducked into a deli to buy a bagel, because it was such a cheap and quick meal, but I stopped that. Instead, I gave myself a mental gold star for getting a big salad or soup and fruit, even though those choices were much more expensive.

For relationships: I’d give a party for my sister’s wedding. It would be a major expenditure but also a major source of happiness. My relationship with my sister—and now with her fiancé—were among the most important in my life, but the fact that they lived in Los Angeles was a challenge. Hosting a party would be a way to make my own contribution to the wedding weekend.

For work: I bought some pens. Normally, I used makeshift pens, the kind of unsatisfactory implements that somehow materialized in my bag or in a drawer. But one day, when I was standing in line to buy envelopes, I caught sight of a box of my favorite kind of pen: the Deluxe Uniball Micro.

“Two ninety-nine for one pen!” I thought. “That’s ridiculous.” But after a fairly lengthy internal debate, I bought four.

It’s such a joy to write with a good pen instead of making do with an underinked pharmaceutical promotional pen picked up from a doctor’s
office. My new pens weren’t cheap, but when I think of all the time I spend using pens and how much I appreciate a good pen, I realize it was money well spent. Finely made tools help make work a pleasure.

For others: I wrote a check to the New York Public Library’s Library Cubs program. I was already donating my time and energy to helping form this group, which supports the children’s rooms in library branches. Time and energy helped the library; money was also useful.

For happy memories: I bought those file boxes in April—an excellent modest splurge. Also, I’ve never forgotten an older friend’s observation: “One of my regrets about my children’s childhoods is that I didn’t have more professional photographs taken.” As luck would have it, I know a terrific photographer. I arranged to have pictures taken of our children, and I was thrilled with the results. These photographs were far better than any snapshot I could take, and I bought several for us and for the grandparents, too. Remembering happy times gives a big boost to happiness, and looking at photographs of happy times helps make those memories more vivid. The money I spent on the photographs will strengthen family bonds, enhance happy memories, and capture fleeting moments of childhood. That’s a pretty good return on the happiness investment.

I pushed a friend to “Buy some happiness” when I stopped by her apartment to admire her new baby (in keeping with my June resolution to “Show up”).

“One thing is really bothering me,” she said. “As a child, I was close to my grandparents, but my in-laws, who live nearby, aren’t very interested in the baby. They already have seven grandchildren. My mother would love to see the baby all the time, but she lives in Cleveland and only comes to New York once a year.”

“Well,” I suggested, “at least until your son is in school, why don’t you go to Cleveland every few months?”

She laughed. “That’s way too expensive.”

“It’s a lot of money, but it’s important to you. Could you afford it?” I knew she could.

“Well, yes, I guess,” she admitted, “but it would be such a hassle to fly with a baby.”

“You could tell your mother you’ll buy her plane tickets if she’ll come to New York more often. Would she come?”

“You know…I bet she would!” my friend said. This solution shows both the importance of thinking about how money can buy happiness and also the importance of my Eighth Commandment: “Identify the problem.” What was the problem? Finding a way for grandmother and grandson to spend time together.

Money, spent wisely, can support happiness goals of strengthening relationships, promoting health, having fun, and all the rest. At the same time, the emotions generated by sheer buying, by acquisition, are also powerful. Happiness theory suggests that if I move to a new apartment or buy a new pair of boots, I’ll soon become accustomed to my new possession and be no happier than I was before. Nevertheless, many people make purchases for the fleeting jolt of happiness they get from the very act of gain.

Now, you might say—that’s not true happiness; true happiness comes from doing good for others, being with friends and family, finding flow, meditating, and so on. But when I look around, I certainly see many people who look and act happy as they do their buying. The fact that the happiness boost that hits at the cash register isn’t particularly admirable doesn’t mean that it’s not real—or that it doesn’t shape people’s behavior. Research and everyday experience show that receiving an unexpected present or being surprised by a windfall gives people a real boost; in one study, in fact, when researchers wanted to induce a good mood in their subjects to study the effects, the way they accomplished this good mood was to arrange for those subjects to find coins in a telephone booth or to be given bags of chocolates. For some people, the rush of happiness that accompanies gain is so seductive that they spend more money than they can afford and are hit by remorse and anxiety once they get their bags home. The quick fix of happiness turns into a longer-lasting unhappiness.

The happiness that people get from buying stuff isn’t attributable only to consumerist indulgence. Any kind of gain creates at least a momentary atmosphere of growth, and there are a lot of reasons why people love to make a purchase: to keep their home in good repair, attractive, and well stocked; to provide for loved ones or strangers; to master something new (such as the latest gadget); to possess an admired object; to teach their children; to live as their peers live; to live differently from their peers; to beautify themselves; to maintain a collection; to keep up with fashion; to defy fashion; to support a hobby or expertise; to benefit others; to justify the enjoyment of shopping as an activity; to offer and return hospitality; to give gifts and support; to win or maintain status; to establish dominance and control; to express personality; to celebrate; to maintain traditions; to break traditions; to make life more convenient, healthier, or safer; to make life more challenging, adventurous, or risky.

I myself rarely feel cash register happiness. Quite the opposite. I’m usually hit by buyer’s remorse when I spend, a feeling that I call “shop shock.” Perhaps that’s why I really notice other people’s enthusiasm. Nevertheless, even for me, indulging in a modest splurge could bring a lot of happiness, if I made my purchases wisely.

When I posted on my blog about my resolution to “Indulge in a modest splurge,” and people posted examples of their own modest splurges, I was struck by the extraordinary variety in people’s tastes.

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.