Can money buy you happiness?
Does the pope shit in the woods? Oh, really? He did? Shit, I missed that in the news… Poor thing. Anyway!
Yes, money can buy you happiness, next question.
Ok, so maybe it isn’t that simple. But I was at a conference this week, in a room filled with people who have a lot of money, and did they look happy? Not particularly.
During the conference, I went outside to grab 5 minutes of “Jenna needs to be on her fucking own for a second” time, and I met a guy with a high vis on, standing next to the bin.
He misread my facial expression as “please talk to me; I love to chat.” He told me that he’s 77 and picks up rubbish for the council for two hours a day, which he loves.
We had a lovely conversation, and I left the encounter feeling a little bit brighter. He was the happiest, most alive person I spoke to all week.
This older man was very content with life. Was he rich? Doubt it. Was he off on an epic trip to the Maldives? I didn’t see a suitcase anywhere… Had he just spent the last two hours watching Florence Pugh wearing a leather jumpsuit in the latest Marvel movie?
Well, the film wasn’t released until the next day, so I’m gonna say no.
He didn’t need lots of money; he was just content with what he had. I mean, the guy needs studying, to be honest, because who the hell is happy with what they’ve got? But it got me thinking: What would make me this happy? Money?
‘How much money would you like to win?’ my friend asked me in the pub the other day. Well, I’d need enough for a house, a few cheques for my favourite peeps and causes, a lifetime’s supply of spending money, and a special fund with which to bribe people so that they’ll love me and never leave. So, I guess £50 million should cover it.
Though I’d accept £5 million… don’t want to seem greedy.
Would that actually make me happy? Yeah, for sure it would. The idiots who ruin their lives after winning the lottery are clearly not doing it right.
But of course, once the novelty of not having to work, bargain hunt or wipe my own arse has worn off, I’ll be just as bored and lonely as I would be if I were skint.
But at least I’d be wearing nicer clothes.
I’d whisk my friends and me away on an all-inclusive trip to Asia – business class, massages, the works. But would that stop me from spiralling, quiet the gut-wrenching void, or magically transform me into someone who doesn’t see the negative in everything?
Maybe for the duration of the trip.
But then as soon as I’m back in England, BOOM, straight back on the struggle bus without a seat belt.
I’m happiest when I’m in the flow state: writing, eating, playing sport, eating, goofing with friends, eating, goofing with the kids I coach on Saturdays, or goofing with other people’s dogs.
That’s when I feel most joy. When I’m goofing. And eating.
A colleague told me about his recent trip to Africa, during which he saw some kids playing with a football made of rolled-up plastic bags. ‘And were they happy?’ I asked. ‘Incredibly. ’
Happiness, like my attention span, is fleeting. Money can’t buy the flow state, true love, or real connection. But it can buy me a bunch of fluffy nubbins (guinea pigs), a few fluffy splooters (dogs), and a handful of people willing to pretend they love me in exchange for cash.
And honestly, I’d take that at this point.
I think the only way I’ll know if money can make me happy is by testing the theory out. If anyone would like to fund this extremely important research, please do get in touch.