The Rich Life

By: Komal Bhojwani

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September 6, 2005

My brother has been visiting from out-of-town and my discipline—with money and with food—has fallen by the wayside. He makes good money, wears designer labels and loves good food and drink. So guess what we’ve been doing? Shopping and eating.

But we're different. I rarely buy outside the sale rack, he never looks at it. I stopped needing dessert after every meal; he still can’t pass it up. But it's so much easier to do things his way. So in the last ten days, I’ve gained a couple of pounds and lost a few hundred bucks. But I will say this. I have some good-looking clothes in my closet now, and I can’t wait to start exercising again to look even better in them.

Shopping has always been a chore for me. I'm short and not proportionately shaped, so I have to try on hundreds of things to find something that fits well. But I can see why my brother shops the way he does. He’s the most common size—in shirts, shoes and trousers. Everything fits him. He doesn’t even have to try it on. And he always looks dapper.

When I'm with my brother, a few pairs of $150 jeans suddenly seem essential, three sunglasses a must, and you can never have enough shirts. To ask whether one needs something is irrelevant. Do you want it? Does it make you look good? Is life a little brighter now? These are the questions he asks. For my brother, shopping is more than entertainment, it’s a philosophy:

1. Better to buy and return than pass up and regret.
2. Wear the right jeans. They make life better.
3. When you find a comfortable pair of everyday shoes, buy two. By the time your first pair has been worn out, the shoe will have been discontinued, but you’ll have enough sole left to find another one.

He told me a story about a pair of Bruno Maglis. They were so comfortable, so sexy, that he bought three of them on the spot: he keeps one in Belize (his primary home and work), and one at his second home in Miami, where he goes regularly for business. And the third shoe? Packed in the original box with cedar inserts, waiting for its time to shine.

In fairness to my brother, he works hard (he was in town on business), and the good life is his reward. We were raised to pay cash for things so I know he doesn’t run a credit card balance—he enjoys the money he makes by saving a little, investing a little more, and spending the rest. So I could only shake my head and give a stunned smile when I heard his three-shoe story. Clearly, his business was doing well.

I was happy for him but I went home that night and cried because I can’t even buy one pair of $400 shoes, let alone three. And I cried too because I had spent more in one week with him on clothes than I would spend all year, and I knew he had spent a lot more, and would shop again and again this year. And I cried too because I was tired of scrimping and saving and eating in and being diligent, and it felt so good when he was here, I felt young and free and light again, and everything seemed possible because I looked good in my new jeans, and I could walk into any restaurant and order what I liked, without regard for the consequences to my wallet or my hips. But mostly I cried because I wanted the kind of success he had, I wanted the ease with which he moves through life.

And yet, even as I was crying, I knew in a profound way that my life was rich: my work, my writing, yoga, morning tea, fresh blueberries, mountain hikes, curling up with a magazine on the couch, catching a great movie on cable, and yes, finding a pair of jeans that fits perfectly—all the small daily actions that make me feel grateful and alive.

I fell asleep finally, loving my family and grateful that I lived on the other side of the continent from them, away from the lure and luster of the lives they’ve chosen. Don’t mistake me for a martyr or a lover of the simple life—I like the pleasure and amusement of fine food and nice things as much as my brother. But every day that I make do with less, I learn this: money is not enough to make a rich life.

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MP

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