My Wallet is Bulging With Money. Repeat.

I was doing some research today for the company Christmas letter, and I couldn’t help but laugh. As the token writer in the office, it is my responsibility to navigate the space between brokerage firm compliance, personal disclosure, and non-denominational holiday cheer.

I began by opening an email that had been fwd: fwd: fwd: to me by the company president. Her instructions were to write something similar to the letter attached. So I opened the attachment and quickly scanned the two and a half page document. Whoa, I thought. There’s a lot of Jesus in this, a lot of joy, and. …affirmations? What the heck is an affirmation?

My only knowledge of affirmations consists of a Sex and the City episode I watched about three summers ago (if I had a dime for every drop of education I’ve received from that show, an entire restaurant would have a round of Cosmos on me). Something about Charlotte repeating the same, positive sentence to herself 40 times a day for 40 days in order to believe is true. A little cathartic, but it doesn’t take much to pique my curiosity. I needed more information.

Enter Google: A-f-f-i-r-m-a-t-i-o-n-s. My search yielded a slew of sponsored websites, each charging $79.99 for a how-to affirmations handbook. No thanks, I thought. L-i-s-t o-f a-f-f-i-r-m-a-t-i-o-n-s …bingo! Now all the affirmation gurus out there are smiling because they know there is no such thing as one, catchall affirmation. Nor will the key to my holiday letter success lie under the hyperlink “Holiday” category. No. Hope is much harder to find on the Internet than you may think.

Here I learn that it takes 40 days to impress upon the unconscious “reacting” mind all that you desire and dream. Then it becomes automatic behavior in the conscious “acting” mind. Supposedly, affirmations are the same as doing any time of repetitive exercise to change or learn a new behavior. I read on. It is very important to say the affirmation slowly with feeling. Give yourself time to let your body feel the affirmation. If your affirmation refers to “wealth,” then feel the wealth.

They have me at feel the wealth.

Here are a few of my favorite examples in the “money” category:

“Unexpected money simply falls into my lap” (Chuckle.)
“I receive money just by thinking luxuriously.” (Harder chuckle.)
“When I open my mailbox, there is always a check for me.” (Now I’m laughing. Apparently, the affirmation experts don’t share a mailbox with two three-year-old and five year old neighbors. I’m lucky if I even get my mail most days.)

Then just when I think my good laugh if over, just as I’m about to navigate away from the page, I notice a simple sentence out of the corner of my eye: “My wallet is bulging with money.”

And right there they’ve got me, I’m a believer. Hook, line, and sinker. Imagine the friends I’ll make repeating this out loud for 40 days. I can hardly clasp my clutch just thinking about it. My wallet is bulging with money …my wallet is bulging with money …my wallet is bulging with money… (I’ll let you know how this works out).

The Day of Questionable Fate

It’s been ten days since my last post, and what do I have to show for it?

One thirty dollar t-shirt from Medieval Times signed by the blue knight, one golden chalice, an unpacked suitcase from six days ago, two plane tickets home from Chicago, a severely overdrawn bank account, one pawned iPod, two days of hysteria, and an empty bottle of red wine.

So the fact of the matter is that my fate and impatience have a habit of colliding at some of the worst possible moments in my life. Not unlike a train wreck, really, when all is said and done. Last Sunday, I arrive at Midway airport in Chicago two hours before my scheduled departure --which is nearly unheard of in itself. I stroll up to the self check-in computer, punch in my carefully scribbled confirmation number, and retrieve my boarding pass.

Only, that last part never happens.

I look around as my hands start to sweat a bit and calmly re-punch the code, VSZZZM. Then the screen instructs me to please see the attendant at the Frontier counter. The bag on my shoulder begins to weigh ninety pounds, and I can tell you that it does not weigh ninety pounds. In real life it does not weigh ninety pounds because that bag on my shoulder is my purse. And if I carry a purse that ever weighs more than two pounds, then I’ll know I’ve made it. I’ll know because I’ll have cash to put in my wallet. I’ll carry a million, one-dollar bills in it, wear a velour sweat suit, and talk with a Long Island accent. Everything feels heavy, and I know that something has gone terribly wrong.

I assume there must’ve been a mistake, so I approach the sociopathic, 10-foot woman behind the counter. After ten minutes of key punching and questioning, she looks down at me. “Honey, she says --in a tone that tells me she’s ready to give this blonde girl the name of two cross streets where she grew up and it’s supposed to mean something, “...your flight was yesterday.” I probably would’ve even seen her smile if I weren’t concentrating so hard on choking back my tears.

For those of you fortunate enough to have use of the left side of your brain, let me explain what it feels like to come to the horrifying realization that you’ve missed your flight by AN ENTIRE DAY: I step away from the counter mechanically, grab a brochure of the table, and search for feeling in my legs. Commanding myself to focus, I dial the Frontier reservation hot line. A kind voice answers and informs me that as of October 1, it is necessary to call ahead and notify Frontier that you will be missing your scheduled flight. Otherwise, you forfeit all ticket value and flight privileges. Right about then, the bottom drops out.

The boring part is that after that I boarded a $400 flight home to Denver. The unnerving part is that these things (that according to Jess “only happen to [me]”) occur with sobering regularity. For instance, the time Jess and I took a friend’s kayak to the Boulder reservoir, and I cracked her windshield loading it into the 4Runner. Or the time I got out of my LSAT practice exam and the instructor asked me when I was taking the actual test. When I smiled and said, “Tomorrow,” she informed me that the test had taken place the day before. I guess there’s nothing that says you’re not ready for law school like missing the entrance exam.

What’s ironic is how these instances throw such a wrench into the image of the sometimes irritatingly meticulous, perfectionistic person I am turning out to be. Though my friend Brian once crowned me “one of two intelligent people I know who actually believe in astrology,” it wouldn’t be without reason here to mention the day I was born. September 6, 1983 is known as “The Day of Questionable Fate.” Which sound about right. According to the text, I can plan my life and arrange everything just so, but it will be upset by an inevitable force beyond my control. The text advises someone born on this day to “roll with the punches.” My mother, who's redundant advice is to “toughen up,” is probably smiling right now.

Back in Boulder, just when I think I’m home free and can indulge in a good, hard, self-pity sob session in the privacy of my own apartment, my mother's sixth sense kicks in from 2,000 miles away. By early in the week, I have three missed calls. So on Wednesday, I listen to her voicemail. Suddenly, I know the thing that only a daughter can know. She knows.

Believe it or not, I actually promised myself that I wouldn’t tell anyone what happened to me at the airport last Sunday. I thought, this time I’m not going to do it. I have sunk so low on the stupidity scale that I’ve weighed in at anorexic. I may need to be hospitalized for severe idiocracy. No one can know that I was the hysterical girl walking tear-blind through Midway airport. Not even my best friend will understand buying an airline ticket at an actual reservation counter. No one, I said to myself, no one.

Luckily, six days later, a bit of the humor has set in.

(Jess says "The Day of Questionable Fate" is part of my plan --that it gives me something to write about. Good point.)

I Heart Art

Anyone who knows me won’t be surprised to hear that I’m reading four different books right now in addition to the Obama Newsweek that arrived in my mailbox Saturday. It's not my glowing overachiever style, it's more of a short attention span reading style. But I’ve got the literary spectrum pretty well covered: two classic novels about life, a historical nonfiction saga about JFK, an incendiary memoir on sexual politics, and an artsy coffee table book collection of interviews called Influence.

I’ve been anxious to write about the Influence interviews since I picked up the book last week. It is a collection of interviews with creative visionaries who have made their mark in many mediums, from oils to interiors, and on many generations of artists in the twenty first century. To me, it is a brilliant attempt to proliferate the ideals, thoughts, theories, and design processes of these incredible interviewees.

I think the last time I was this excited about a book was when a friend gave me The Creative Habit by Twyla Tharp last Christmas. And, true to form, I’ve devoured each book with an insatiable desire to understand the creative force. I also watched The Discovery Channel’s Unsolved History: The Chicago Fire from Netflicks last week --just to get all my nerdy skeletons out of the closet.

To the point: there is a part of the interview with Francisco Costa when he and the interviewer are discussing a little concept called “trusting your instincts.” The interviewer tells Costa, “I don’t read any magazines. I really just try to stay in my world and figure out what I want, what makes me happy. I’ve got to trust my instincts. I really try to block out all the media and all the press, magazines, everything. At the end of the day I’m with myself, and I feel like that’s the way I’ve been able to move forward.”

I stinking love it. Not in the isolationist sense, but I was literally thinking about this the other day. I was thinking to myself, “Self, when have been the most creative times in your life? And how can I recreate that feeling?” The answer is two things: confidence and (lack of) funding.

When I think back, one of the most creative, imaginative phases of my life happened during my junior and senior years of high school. It was the perfect storm of new found driver’s license independence, local thrift stores, style experimentation, fearlessness, and naivete. As managing editor of layout and design for the school newspaper, I was the queen of my own little world. Part of my job was to write a weekly column and, by god, it was my time to preach to the people. (Read: awkward Ayn Rand phase where I’m pretty sure no one knew what the hell I was talking about --including myself). The point is that I felt like the first person in the world who thought of driving downtown Indianapolis on a Sunday afternoon to search for thrift store treasures in the all-black neighborhoods. No one knew me there for certain, and no one at school knew where I was shopping for vintage duds. I could lose myself for hours sifting through costume jewelry cases, and my exposure to that world gave me a chance to develop my own style over time (while my classmates were shopping at the mall). And my own sense of confidence.

I was voted Best Dressed by my classmates at the end of Senior year and they presented me with a cheesy plaque. I gave the plaque to the owner of my favorite thrift store as a nod to all the “friends and family” discounts they had given me over the years. Though, looking back, maybe what I should’ve done was give the owner a new CD to play in the store. I stopped there when I was in town last July, and I swear the same Doors album has been playing since 2002.

The second element is a catch-22: money. When I didn’t have my own money to shop at department stores or afford a pair of shoes in every color, I seemed to do more with less. The process of asking my mom for money in high school and instead being sent back to my closet to see if I “already had something like that,” prompted hours of dress-up behind closed doors. I can literally remember standing in my closet, looking at my clothes with a pair of scissors in my hand, ready to deconstruct something I already had.

I experienced one of these maniac moments once while my grandmother was visiting. I remember cutting up a peach-colored dress and hastily sewing it back together in time to have a new skirt for the night. Embaressed of my mom and grandmother's reaction, I tiptoed down the hardwood stairs in my A-line(ish) skirt, and ragged-hem tank top. “Oooooh, look at you,” they humored me. “Turn around, and let us see what you did. Wasn’t that a dress before?” I smiled and twirled, and just as I grabbed my purse to scurry out the door, my grandmother stopped me. “Waaaait a second,” the master seamstress said. “Look at this crooked hem in the back, it goes clear from one diagonal end to the other. Where do you think you’re going dressed like that, young lady?” Needless to say, I'll never make a decent tailor without some training.

So, sure, I still express myself through fashion, it’s just that life goes by at a different pace when you’re older. Suddenly, I don't have the time or energy to play dress-up in my closet after a long day at work --much less hem a pair of pants. It's easier to walk into Banana Republic and grab a sweater off the shelf then spend hours digging through moth-ball remains. Searching for inspiration is such an active process that most days, it's easier to let someone else do the work. Eventually, the process is unconscious. I can pick up a magazine at the grocery store or watch an hour of TV to appreciate the end-result of someone else's imaginative process ...say, Marc Jacobs?

Soon my focus wanders off into places where other artists are going ...their vision, the things that inspire them. When an artist becomes more concerned about the creativity around them, they've lost their authenticity. And I don’t feel much like an artist when I don't have a vision. If best creative state of mind means living the way I used to (minus the braces), I'll need to slow down (spend more time alone in seedy thrift stores?), set aside time to indulge my ideas, and surround myself with people who encourage me to create. As Bob Colacello once said, "Real creativity is being true to yourself and getting people to go with you. That's influence."

The End of My Rope

Despite having four alarms and three alarm clocks, it's nearly impossible for me to wake up in the morning. I've literally tried everything: irritating cell phone alarms (one at 6:00 am, 6:45, and 7:00), digital alarms on cheap plastic clocks, old-fashioned metal clocks with the deafening hammer-alarm ringer, a clock radio alternately set to country music and full-volume static, and others... In truth, the only thing that's snapped me awake in the past month was the shrill sound of my sister's voice, "Lindsey!!!!" It seems that my symphony of alarms is enough to wake up sommmeone.

So I would like to introduce my new, gentler approach: the Soleil Super Bright Sun Alarm Ultima (ooooh, ahhhhh). The Sun Alarm promises to wake you naturally, like a sunrise, and energize you for the day ahead. With a special built-in light (and hopefully a hammer to knock me over the head), the Sun Alarm gradually increases the intensity of light until your body wakes instinctively. Instinctively? Dear god, I hope this little spaceship-looking thing works. I'll have to let you know...

How to Outsmart Your Opponent

A friend of mine recently inspired this posting. I’m going to dedicate the information to her, for whenever and wherever she feels the need to remove it from her arsenal.

Last weekend, I picked up my mother from the airport for her annual fall break vacation to Colorado. We were starving so we met up with Jess and her boyfriend Chad for some microbrews and nachos. As we sipped our tasty brew, Chad relayed the latest news on his two young nephews.

Is it normal for a three year old to give in so easily to his bossy, seven-year-old brother? Shouldn’t he be fighting back? Is it right to punish a sibling who outsmarts the other? We decided ultimately, yes. But that’s because arguing over toys eventually leads to punching, slapping, and pulling hair --I don’t care who you are. Didn’t we all learn this in preschool?

I wont bore you with this analogy, but our conversation got me thinking about strategies people use in their daily interactions. Even from the time we are young. Consciously or sub-consciously, we all make competitive decisions, big or small, every day. A friend once told me to pay attention to the feeling I get every time I walk away from an interaction with someone. He said, it’s simple, “You either feel a plus, like you have taken something away, or a minus, like you have given something up.” His theory is that, over time, these (often subconscious) feelings add up to determine whether you like or dislike an individual.

Strategic translation: You’ve either won or you’ve lost. You walk away with the toy or you walk away with a black eye.

Let me remind you that this type of competitive approach with the people you call your “friends” or your “family” (is it just me or there is something funny about putting quotation marks around the word family? …your alleged “family”) will get you nowhere. I wouldn't recommend using these tactics unless it's absolutely necessary. What I’m interested in here is how to spot a negative, energy-zapping interaction before it happens and how to turn the interaction to your favor when the gloves must come off.

It’s pretty entertaining to Google something like “how to outsmart your opponent.” Here are a few of the top results:

According to MensHealth.com, in order to outsmart and outlast (outlast? I haven’t even considered taking stamina into consideration) your opponent, you must “Dream the Feeling.” The Peter Pan prophets say that when you daydream, you are actually training your neuromuscular connections; and yes, the article is actually talking about sports, but it works. So instead of “fantasizing about coming from behind to beat your rival, focus on the physical sensations you want to achieve during competition.” In other words, imagine your confident posture, relaxed facial expression, and voice with as much authority as you can muster.

The next stop on my wild research ride is a questionable poker website, complete with whisky ads and Wild West photos. The message here? Profile your opponent. “It is a skill that will allow you to outsmart your competition on your way to big time earnings.” (NOTE: I’m not promising any dividends here, but nothing says victory like a little satisfaction.) According to sketchypokerwebsite.com, the first thing to know is that your opponent is profiling you at the same time. For this reason, you should do whatever it takes to hide the real you. This way, you can get a good read on your opponent, but they will not be able to do the same to you. The other gem of advice here is to act quickly and accurately. “Remember, you will not be at the table with the same people for days on end. From the second they approach you, you will have to consider what you will do to beat them, and how you can implement the plan.” Vague and a bit cutthroat, but you get the picture.

Gamblers aside, who better to ask than the psychologists themselves? Patrick J. Cohn, Ph.D, Mental Game Coach and author of the The Confident Athlete: a 14-day Plan for Ultimate Self-Confidence says that a rival will put obstacles in your way just to flex his or her muscles. He suggests grabbing the bull by the horns and dethroning your opponent by forming allies. Invite a few mutual friends out for breakfast, and get everyone on the same page, then foot the bill. Victoria Hilkevitch Bedford Ph.D, professor of psychology at the University of Indianapolis, says that "the person who's out to get you will then be out-numbered. And if most people are in favor of your perspective, the opponent will want to join your winning team." If that doesn't turn the situation in your favor, there's always the moral high road of silence.

"Change has come to America"

So many things... The pundits who doubted the youth vote, the time I spent growing up in Chicago, the number of friends I have living there now (celebrating at Grant Park right now), the way celebrating tonight reminded me of New Year's Eve, the superstitious caution I took in buying a half bottle of champagne, the relief in every black commentator's expression, the honesty, the history, the hope, and the change.

It's not that people my age haven't cared about elections in the past, it's just that we haven't had a reason to care enough. We haven't believed the "bubblegum machine" politics of "I promise you this, I promise you that. I promise to be different." Different has been easy to say, but in the face of "terrorist" accusations, "who are you" questions, and "why trust you" complaints --we have seen an honorable man lead an honorable, steady campaign ending in front of the podium he stands in front of tonight. If we believed there was such change possible in the past, we would've listened, more of us would've voted, and we would've believed. Now I believe. I believe that change has come to America.

"All things are possible."

Tonight as I text my friends, half-jokingly I ask them if it is too early to pop the champagne cork, it feels like New Year's eve. With my friends and family gathered around, I feel an unequivocable sense of new beginning. And it has only just begun.

What an incredible, fortunate time to be alive.