I have a millionaire friend. In fact, I have a few. It happens sometimes. Big Whoop. I’d be willing to bet that a whole lotta people out there have one or two tucked down into the ‘ol pocketbook between the day-planner and the tube of M.A.C. So Chaud.
With any luck, I’ll be the cash-surplused friend someone writes about one day.
In the here and now, however…
Earlier this week I was sitting with my millionaire friend at a mid-town Tel Aviv cafe sipping latte-hold-the-foam and telling her about my panicky day. Because I was having a panicky day.
The kind of day where I look at my income, eyeball my finances & critique my list of future job assignments and then go off into tangential mode.
Oh My God I’m going to be homeless. Oh My God I’m going to run out of money. I won’t be able to buy groceries. Oh My God I’m never going to be able to afford. . . (unfurl lengthy list of desired assets and goods).
In psychological terms, it’s what is loosely referred to as “downward spiral” thinking. In Wall Street terms – and particularly after listening to several people express exactly the same panic during a group discussion that day – I’m sorta guessing I tapped into synchronicity .
Stephanie my wise-beyond-her-years Baku-born friend comforted even people who have lots and lots of money and lots & lots of assets wake up some days with those panicky feelings. In fact, they probably have them more frequently than average income people and I’m guessing they hit harder. There’s more at stake.
Really? I had never thought of it that way. But of course she was right.
The trick she continued is in talking yourself down out of that place. Because if you allow yourself to go there, you can become entrenched and have a tough time getting out. You have to believe that there’s enough out there for you, too.
You mean the Trust that the Universe will Provide theory, I asserted.
Exactly, she replied.
Now I know that last bit about the universe may sound like a whole lotta airy fairy hoakie New Age drivel. Oh there she goes on the San Francisco track again. But I believe in it. I truly do. I see it work all the time in my life. I just need reminding sometimes.
In any event, I felt a whole lot better after that talk.
Especially when we got around to discussing our respective families.
It turns out that my younger brother Josh’s habit at the ripe age of four of charging down the front stairs into our entrance hall on his Big Wheel was chump change compared to the affinity her two older brothers held for fire
My mother went out once – literally for 5 minutes – to buy a loaf of bread at the kiosk down the street. When she rounded the corner to our street, flames were leaping from the 1st floor windows. The boys had set the furniture on fire. Again.
Are you kidding me? I gasped.
Naw. We were the kids other kids weren’t allowed to visit. Especially after my brothers set my friend Yazeela’s hair on fire. . .
Yeah, she nodded gravely, noting my response. My brother flicked a match at her and it stuck in her hair. Within seconds all those red curls were on fire. My brother was horrified – he hadn’t meant for it to happen. Come to think of it, her parents actually allowed her to come back and play.
I was rendered speechless. In my parents’ house they’d have been grounded well into their late 40’s. Her mom didn’t bat an eyelash, as she tells it.
Today her brothers are successful businessmen back in Azerbaijan. Who don’t set things ablaze.
Geeyad. . .
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Stefanella's Drive Thru 
