Something must be wrong with me

I don't want to be rich. I don't want a big car or even a small one. I don't want a huge house. I don't want a closet crammed full of clothes. I've never been motivated by money (saying that, I do want a colour-co-ordinated roof over my head, enough food, and enough money for an adventure or two). But I have all that.

I've only been really poor once in my life when my ex-and I were living in Stuttgart and his Army pay meant at the end of the month there might not be enough food. Still, since it was temporary it didn't bother me. It was a game to make do...my coffee pot doubled as an iron...macaroni and butter with pepper filled the stomach...walking worked when even a tram ticket cost too much... I would rather not be that poor again.

Since then I've always had enough to provide for myself and my daughter (before she was independent) with a few luxuries. I could have earned more money if I had chosen a different career path, but I wouldn't have enjoyed the work I did. And I won't say that money didn't play a part in some decisions. There was one time I did want to work for a certain charity, BUT the salary was less than my mortgage.

I've been lucky in that I've never worked for an organization that does harm to the world. I could have made more money in advertising than working for non-profits but there would have been more hours and products that I couldn't justify selling. However, if my daughter had needed to eat I would have had to compromise. Situational ethics and all that.

Although I wouldn't mind writing a book that sells millions of copies, I am happy that some people read my books. They haven't made me rich, and rich was never the reason I wrote anything. Maybe I am not ambitious enough. But the joy was in the process of doing and being read is the extra.

The reason for this blog was a conversation with a friend who said that Americans all believe that one day they can be rich and although the French wouldn't mind being rich, they neither expect it nor will they sacrifice certain things to be rich. Probably both premises are partially true and partially false.

What I want to be is content...content with the sun shining on the tile roofs, content with the yellow flowers in my vase (and outside if I didn't buy any), content to have a good writing day, content knowing I've a great kid and lovely friends, content that when the bise blows, I can stay inside...content to crawl back under the covers on a cold morning...

Content and rich aren't opposites.

Maybe it comes down to value systems. I just don't care to maximize my bank balance at certin costs. In fact, I seldom think of it all and maybe I should but then again I have more than enough and I am content. And maybe something is wrong with me but I can live with it.