Is Happiness . . . Sustainable?

The Occidental Ape

by Cusper Lynn

“Being a consultant is, I admit, difficult to explain to people since there are two things a good consultant generally has to be: over-educated and underpaid. At some point, when enough alphabetti spaghetti accumulates after your name in terms of degrees and certifications, you just are no longer employable.” Cusper Lynn

SARASOTA Florida—(Weekly Hubris)—5/7/2012—For years, I’ve been asked by people, “What do you really do for a living?”

It’s one of those questions that aggravates me, because people always ask it right after I’ve volunteered that I am an author and a consultant.

The thing is, no one believes that being a consultant actually includes a payday, or even understands what one does; and if they haven’t read your book, subscribed to your newsletter, or heard about you in The New York Times, they don’t believe anyone makes any money as an author.

You might think I have witty retorts ready for these folks, but I don’t. They’d be wasted on that audience. Instead, I use the “Hey, what is that bright shinny thing bouncing over in that far corner?” approach to draw them off. It always works.

Being a consultant is, I admit, difficult to explain to people since there are two things a good consultant generally has to be: over-educated and underpaid. At some point, when enough alphabetti spaghetti accumulates after your name in terms of degrees and certifications, you just are no longer employable.

So now you are faced with the challenge of getting people to pay you big fees to solve large problems. To do this successfully you have to understand some fundamental things about human nature; in particular you have to understand “Expectations” and “Happiness.”

If you have a client whose company is going broke and you help them get a million-dollar contract that saves their bacon, they are “Happy.” When the following year rolls round and you help them get four million dollars in contracts, they are “Disappointed.” Why? Because, there has been a change in their “Expectations.”

Some might call this ingratitude but, in my experience, it is simply evidence of human nature.

“Happiness” is conditional. Everyone sets limits on her or his happiness: I will be happy when I lose 30 pounds; I will be happy when I meet and marry my soul mate; I will be happy when I have a million dollars; I will be happy when I travel the world. The list goes on and on. The thing is, every time we get one of our “Happiness” mile markers, we are happy for a while and that item drops off the list to be replaced with a new prerequisite. With that comes dissatisfaction because we have changed our expectations.

As a consultant, I deal with this issue every day. So I have developed a visualization exercise that helps my clients deal . . . .

CUSPER LYNN’S VISUALIZATION EXERCISE

Over the course of the past week, my phone has been bombinating because one of my services to my consulting clients comprises “legislative analysis.” This means that I read and follow the activities of the government in order to advise clients about pending laws and regulations that could impact their business. This year, our legislature has been very active, and my services in high demand.

Most of my clients call in for basic information and my best predictions for the coming 12 months. For a few, the truly profitable clients, extended hand-holding and a lot of explanation is required; I, of course, charge for all of this. “Charlie” is one of my more profitable clients. He calls me two to three times a day; he is a doctor whom I’ve known since back when I was in private practice.

“Cusper, are they really going to do this?” asks Charlie before I even manage to say hello.

“Charlie, there are still a number of things that have to occur before they pass the law,” I reassure him (as I clip a Flor de Gonzalez, 90 Mile Churchill Cigar). This is going to be a long call.

“Like what?” Charlie wails. (He really is a very good doctor. I care about the guy.)

“Well, the bill has just been passed in the House. The Senate has to take it up—,”I begin only to be cut off.

“But the Senate has their own bill! Why would they take it up?” Charlie protests, sounding a good deal younger and less mature than his 57 years.

“Well now, Charlie, like I told you earlier, the Senate can move forward on their bill, take up the House bill, or have a meeting with leaders of the House to try and reconcile the two bills. Things can go a lot of ways here,” I drawl, letting the smoke drift out with my commentary.

“Why would they do this? It’s a terrible bill! They have to know that people are going to hate it!” He whines.

I draw on my 90 Mile and look out across the yard. It really is a very nice day. I let some silence accumulate and let out a puff of smoke.

“Charlie, we’ve talked about this. How did I explain it?” I ask, not interested in having to repeat a lesson offered only two days earlier.

“You said, ‘Mr. Big Insurance Company’ came to town with a lot of money and bought a Governor, the House of Representatives and a lot of Senators.” Charlie regurgitates verbatim my précis on lobbyists.

“That’s right, Charlie. That is exactly what I said. And I said something else. What was the moral of that story?”

“You said that ‘Mr. Big Insurance Company’ got value for his money because he spent a few million to earn several billion.” Charlie sounds like a contrite school boy.

“That’s right, that is absolutely right,” I congratulate him. (I swear, some day I may have to use sock puppets to explain this stuff to clients.)

“Do you think it will pass?” he resumes, wheedling.

“Charlie, it’s about 60 percent done at this point. A lot can happen between now and the end of the session. But they made a lot of progress with the bill this time,” I say, hedging painful truth with nearly impossible hope.

“But Cusper, I’ve got tuition coming up for Henry, and Davey starts university next year! I am going to have two kids in college and no income! What am I going to do?!?”

“We’ve talked about this Charlie: it is time to re-invent yourself. Time to start over,” I tell the fifty-seven year old medical director of a mid-sized medical clinic chain.

“Do you know what that means? Seriously, Cusper, do you have any idea how bad this is?!?” he yelps.

“Bad is relative,” I answer, tapping off some ash.

“Relative?!?” he protests.

“Charlie, where are you, right at his moment?” I cut across his rising indignation.

“In my office. Why?” he asks.

“You by yourself?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Take off your shoes, Charlie,” I say.

“What?”

“You heard me. Take off your shoes.” (I’m slowly sounding out each word.)

“Why?” he asks, fumbling with the phone.

“You’re taking your shoes off?” I repeat.

“Yes, but I don’t see . . .”

“Good. Got socks on?”

“What?”

“Do you have socks on?” I ask, drawing on my cigar.

“Yes . . .”

“Take ‘em off!” I order.

“But . . .” I can hear the phone being jostled from side to side.

“All right, now, you have no socks and no shoes on, right?”

“Yes.” He pauses. “You aren’t going to tell me to take off my pants, are you, Cusper?”

I smile. “No Charlie, I’m not going to ask you to take off your pants.”

But I know that if I told him to he would.

“Now Charlie, we are going to do a little exercise. It’s a guided visualization to help you get control of the situation. You are listening, right?”

“Yes,” he murmurs.

“OK: you are not going to see anyone or talk to anyone or look at your damn computer for the next few minutes. You are going to close your eyes and take a deep breath,” I say, drawing again on my cigar.

“Fine.” I can hear some resistance in his voice, but I know his eyelids are drifting shut.

“Now, wiggle your toes Charlie. What do you feel?”

“I feel the carpet,” he says.

“No, Charlie, you don’t. We don’t feel carpet, we don’t feel walls. Those are abstractions. What do you feel?” I ask.

“It’s cool.” He hesitates. “And soft.”

“That’s better, Charlie: cool and soft. Good, now you’re actually feeling.”

“OK,” he concurs.

“Now, Charlie, I want you to keep breathing,” I say, hearing his breath slowing. “Nice and easy. Deep and slow. And now, I want you to picture a farm. Keep your eyes closed and picture the farm. Can you see it?”

“Yes, yes I can see it,” he says peacefully.

“Charlie, what type of farm do you see?”

“It’s beautiful. There is a white picket fence, a duck pond, a red barn . . .” he burbles.

“That’s nice, Charlie, but that isn’t the farm we need to see just now. That is the retirement farm. That is the place for the grandkid to visit. I want you to picture a different farm.”

“OK,” he says, nervously.

“Your feet are going to be really cold on this farm, Charlie. Can you feel ‘em getting cold?” I ask, sending wafts of smoke ceilingward.

“Um . . . Yes, actually, I can,” he involuntarily grunts from the cold.

“Charlie, this farm isn’t green. It is white and gray. Because it is winter,” I say smoothly.

“Reeeallly?” He shudders.

“Oh yes, Charlie, as cold as can be, and your wife Helen is there with you and so are the boys,” I add.

“Why?” Charlie asks, tentatively.

“Well, Charlie, this is where you live now. You are standing in Siberia, the cold you are feeling is the permafrost, and that’s snow under your feet. You see, Charlie, it’s the dead of winter. In Siberia.”

“Why?” He shudders.

“Well, Charlie, this is your farm and, I have to tell you, you are doing pretty well, really. Your wife Helen, however, is coughing up blood each night, and the boys are both thin because they haven’t eaten,” I explain.

“Why haven’t they eaten?” he asks in alarm. “Why is Helen coughing blood?!?”

“Now, Charlie, you’re a doctor: think about it. You’re all in that one-bedroom shack; every night she is up coughing. You are thinking . . . what?” I ask.

“Tuberculosis?” he whispers.

“That’s right, Charlie, Helen’s got TB. But you’re hopeful . . .”

“. . . but why are the boys hungry?” he interrupts me.

“Now, Charlie,” I chide as he is getting ahead of the visualization process. “You had a poor harvest last season . . .”

“And why am I standing barefoot in the snow?” he interrupts again.

“Well, that’s one good question . . . and the other good question is why are you holding a rifle?” I reply.

“I’m holding a rifle,” he says in surprise.

“Yes, Charlie, you are holding a rifle, standing barefoot in the snow, with blood seeping from your cracked and calloused feet and you are defending your wife and your boys because starving peasants from the nearby village have been raiding farms. All you have in your house is 40 pounds of rotting, shriveled potatoes and some putrid bacon and you’re going to shoot these peasants who are wearing even less then you are . . . and who are hungrier,” I explain.

“But . . . I don’t want to shoot anyone,” he stammers.

“No, Charlie, you don’t. But, you see, they are going to tear you and your family apart for those rotting potatoes and that putrid bacon if you don’t.”

“But . . .”

“No, Charlie, this is it: you and your family, barely clothed, freezing to death outside your Siberian shack on a bit of frozen ground that you can barely scratch a living from, and you are going to have to shoot these half-dead peasant . . . or die,” I conclude.

“That’s terrible!” Charlie wails.

“Yes, yes it is. Now take a deep breath,” I instruct him.

Charlie sighs.

“And another. Now, I want you to open your eyes . . . slowly,” I say softly.

“OK.”

“Tell me. What do you see?”

“My desk . . . my office . . . my shoes and socks on the floor,” he says in a hushed voice.

“Good, Charlie. Now, is there a picture on your desk?”

“Yes: Helen and the boys.”

“How do they look?”

“Healthy. Happy.”

“Good, Charlie. That’s right. Your wife and kids are healthy and happy,” I say softly.

My cigar is slowly turning to ash.

“So, Charlie, if the law passes, what is the worst that will happen?”

“I will lose my job, have to start over. I might lose my home,” he responds, picking up speed.

“Charlie, are you going to end up barefoot and holding a rifle in Siberia, defending your family and a sack of rotting potatoes?” I ask.

“And putrid bacon,” he adds.

“Yes, and the putrid bacon,” I agree. “Is that where you’re going to end up if the worst case scenario happens?”

“No.”

“So, do you see that bad is relative? Between where you are now and living in Siberia holding a rifle and starving to death there is a lot of room for things to be unpleasant, but not really bad.”

“Yes, not really bad,” he agrees. “Thanks Cusper.”

“All part of the service. I’ll update you as soon as I hear anything,” I say happily.

“I think I’m going to go for a walk in the park. I’m feeling pretty good. Maybe I’ll take Helen out for dinner,” he says, his mood improving by the second.

“There you go. That is what I like to hear!”

“Bye, Cusper. Talk to you tomorrow,” Charlie says and rings off.

So yes, happiness is conditional and relative.

I do love being a consultant.

Post Script A brief disclaimer vis-a-vis this, and any, visualization exercise: if you are driving a vehicle, on psychiatric meds, or under the care of a physician for mental health issues, please do not do this exercise as you will drive off the road, become a threat to your community, lower pharmaceutical company profits, deny a good physician a well-earned fee and vex your local EMTs.