Good news: I have many of the habits of billionaires.
I just confirmed it.
It’s that insomnia time of the month, which means I was up this morning at 4:30 am, doing all the rituals that help me get back to sleep: watch a so-so show on my iPad (Walking Dead, can’t seem to love it) get up and eat cereal (Crispix, now and forever), browse the dregs of Facebook.
This last one means clicking on links that are normally in the “too boring/ we all know what it’s going to say” category. So I opened up a Huffpo piece on 20 habits of billionaires, by a young dude who’d worked with Oprah and some other richie rich I’d never heard of. I was able to check off almost all.
Here’s a sampling, including the one that has apparently brought me down.
Check! I’m very curious about people. Wait, nosy counts as curious, right? I would like to read everyone’s emails and overhear every conversation ever had, please. I’m the stranger who will move closer to you instead of away when you’re fighting with someone in public on your cell phone.
The Sony hack wasn’t my doing, but it would’ve been if I had those skills. I’m just glad they shared their findings.
Meaning, delegate stuff to other people. Check! I send out my laundry every couple of days. This frees me up to get in my genius zone.
Invest in yourself.
Check! These eyelash extensions ain’t free, people.
Surround yourself with “better” people.
Check! Almost everyone I know is better than I am. Especially my husband. He cleans as he goes, always leaves bigger tips at restaurants, and showers before the gym. If he found 20 bucks on the street, I think he’d turn it in to the police. He goes through the garbage and pulls out the plastic stuff that should’ve been recycled, though sometimes he’s wrong. Most takeout containers have the 5 or 6 on the back, which means they go in the garbage.
Take enormous risks.
Check! I recently taught a live webinar which, though it’s not exactly primetime TV, was enough personal exposure to make me sweat through my yellow silk shirt. BTW, that doesn’t always come out at the dry cleaners.
Also, I often eat things off the floor.
Never eat alone.
Well, this one explains everything. It’s why I don’t have the option of retiring at 45, and why I don’t have Beyonce performing at my birthday party. If this is the habit you need to become a billionaire, I’m toast.
I love eating alone.
Because my husband is in the restaurant business, there are many nights when he’s not home till midnight and I’m left to what he calls my “lonely girl” dinner. This means:
1) Newspaper spread out on the rolling steel-and-glass coffee table in front of the couch (which I’m not allowed to eat on but tough titties.)
2) Delivery food choices that Steven finds tragic, so they’re exclusive to Lonely Girl Dinner events.
Two regulars: rotisserie chicken from a place called Dirty Bird, which always finds a way to screw up the order and then get an earful from me on the phone about how they just lost a very good customer; or The Grand Sichuan’s hot and sour soup, greasy chow fun, and heart-healthy steamed chicken with vegetable medley to balance it out.
Steven cries when he sees a vegetable medley. He thinks it’s the most depressing item in the food kingdom. So it’s a staple of Casa Lonely Girl.
3) Real Housewives, Parenthood, or any other show that requires viewing by one’s self.
I can’t watch either of these in front of my husband. During Real Housewives, he talks over the shrieking women, often making fun of the most surgery-altered in a deep tranny voice, and keeps asking “How much of this is left?”
During Parenthood, I get too embarrassed, because he always seems to come in during the treacly musical montage at the end where people are living, loving and learning life lessons.
So these are perfect with a bowl of pathetically mixed-together Chinese food. Like, hot and sour soup poured on top of the sauceless steamed chicken. Or mish-mash of chow fun and rice. It’s a judgment-free zone.
4) Ice cream, and then seconds on ice cream. Mushed up with milk. I know, this is called a milkshake, but it’s really not because I eat it with a spoon, not a straw.
If I knew giving up this habit would make me a billionaire, I might be willing to go meet up with friends for every meal. But you know what? If Oprah says she never eats alone, she’s lying.
No way she calls Gayle to join her every time she comes across a plump, juicy chicken. Girlfriend eats hot wings in bed, for sure, and she’s doing just fine. So this list is bogus.
Maybe I just need to send out the laundry more often.
Do you share the “success habits of billionaires”?
Which one is keeping you from billions?
Do you love to eat alone?
TELL ME IN THE COMMENTS.