The Contentment Project, Part I: Want vs. Have

Let me start by saying that we live a very cushy life. It was already pretty cushy when we cut ties with the Army a few months ago. Since then we've embraced a lovely new life and the cush factor has reached an all-time high. We waved goodbye to our world of deployments and war and friends who've laid down their lives for us and stepped easily into the life we've been planning for years. I traded in my uniform for jeans and time at home with the kids; my husband traded in his for suits and ties and nine to five. We gained a house with nearly twice the square footage of our old one, and moved from an isolated community without a support network to a picture-perfect and kid-friendly suburb with grandparents right around the corner. It's priceless to know that we'll never again being separated due to Army missions; even on busy days we still get to see each other at the end of the day. We'd dreamed of this life for so long, and now, to be finally living it? Sheer perfection!
So why am I writing about contentment right now?

Well, it all started one day shortly after we arrived in our new little Utopia. I was happily driving home from story time with the kids in my well-loved soccer mom SUV. As we slowed for a traffic light, I suddenly noticed that I was literally surrounded by luxury: an Audi in front of me, a Lexus to my right, and a BMW behind me. As if to add insult to injury, a sleek Mercedes breezed by me on the left and turned swiftly into the gated community.

I tried to casually dismiss my observation, but by the time I had coaxed my trusty Ford into the garage, the damage was done; I'd bitten the apple, and my eyes were opened to a whole new world that I'd never payed mind to before--not because I was naive, but simply because it was just that low on my scale of importance. In my previous life, said Importance Scale might involve making life and death decisions, but now I became consumed by my daily tally of Coach and Prada products. Everywhere I turned--and I mean ev.er.y.where--I saw some luxurious item that I certainly didn't have. At story time, at the pool, in the grocery store, at church...every handbag, every accessory, every vehicle sported a designer label or boasted some mark of affluence. My observations were confirmed when I went to get my hair cut (pleading with the hairdresser to teach me how to style it a little since my hair routine for the last nine years had consisted of 1. wake up, 2. put hair in bun). Upon finding out that I was new to the area, she proclaimed grimly, "yep, you're in Desperate Housewives country now, honey."
Indeed, somewhere between that fateful drive and my hairdresser's proclamation, I'd become so immersed in a society fixated on status that I stopped believing people could appreciate me for who I was, instead of who I was wearing. In my old life, I'd been perfectly content with my own style. I bought things that were flattering, things that I liked, things that still allowed my character to shine through; I never felt the need to suffocate my character and obtain some superficial status by having designer stuff. If a designer label ever received my mark of approval, it was because it both met my standards of acceptable style and wouldn't break the bank, not because it had a large logo plastered across it for the world to see. But now I lived in Desperate Housewives society, and I just had to fit in. The obsession became bad enough that by the time I issued myself a wake-up call, I was scheming of ways that I could use our dwindling income for that new handbag (disregarding the eight I already had in the closet) instead of concerning myself with feeding and clothing our children as any respectable mother would. Yet even as I recognized how ridiculous my discontentment was, I couldn't shake it. It was hard to define the drastic change in my outlook, or understand why I was suddenly so worried about the impression I was making on others--even those who I'd never meet. But I knew I wasn't the only one who felt compelled to care about such superficial matters. The unspoken pressure of this Desperate Housewives society to have it all--and have it all together--was absolutely incredible.

Still, whether or not I wanted to admit it, my woe-is-me-with-no-Louis-Vuitton attitude was not just my own problem, it was affecting those most important to me: my kids--who were being robbed of their mother as I glued myself to the computer screen whilst online window shopping for things I could never buy, and my husband--who had somehow maintained enough patience to not smack me as I whined, yet again, about the ridiculous collections of designer items all the other moms had, while trying unconvincingly to assure him that I wasn't at all jealous and I didn't need that stuff. (I was just talking about it incessantly...right). But I wasn't fooling anyone; least of all, myself. I knew it wasn't just an issue of owning a few quality designer items--there's nothing wrong with that. It was the age-old problem of simply wanting more, no matter what I had. If I could go from beyond excited about our new life to instantly and indefinitely consumed with all the things I didn't have, how would I ever be happy?

Providentially, right when I decided it was high time to come back down to earth, I found myself barraged by little snippets and quotes like these (thanks, Pinterest and Facebook!), driving home the point:

“When you are in the final days of your life, what will you want? Will you hug that college degree in the walnut frame? Will you ask to be carried to the garage so you can sit in your car? Will you find comfort in rereading your financial statement? Of course not. What will matter then will be people. If relationships will matter most then, shouldn't they matter most now?” - Max Lucado

Such reminders couldn't have come at a better time. But as great as they were, I realized their effects were short-lived. When I caught myself conspicuously lusting after the gorgeous Valentino handbag that an exceedingly lovely and put-together young mom was carrying around the library, I knew I needed a more permanent approach. A different way of thinking. A complete attitude makeover.

So I came up with a simple little challenge for myself:

One week.
One list a day.
No designer anything (not that I had much to start with).
And a whole lot of humble pie.

Happily, by the end of the week, I'd not-so-surprisingly uncovered a much more content--and appreciative--me.

How did it work? Every time I caught myself gawking at or salivating over anything that anyone else had (and subsequently starting to judge them in the same light I hoped I wouldn't be judged), I wrote it down in my little WANT column. I then wrote down any remotely similar items or qualities I already possessed in the HAVE column, making sure to reflect on all the blessings and intangibles associated with each thing. It didn't matter what it was or where I was, I wrote it down: at the library, in the car (of course I waited until I stopped driving), at church (where I'd been spending so much time checking out others' wardrobes that I couldn't remember one word of the sermon); it all got recorded for posterity's sake. Sometimes I recorded the same things over and over. I also reminded myself to say a little prayer for the person I'd judged in order to remember that they were humans, not mannequins...something like "God, help her have a good day today," or "God, help her with whatever big issue she's struggling with right now." At the end of the week I collected the lists from each day and read through the HAVE columns one last time, unable to stop smiling as I drank in all of my blessings. Then I put them in the memory box and went out to face the world with my positive new outlook.

Simple as that.

So why, you ask, would a somewhat shy gal like me choose to air these faults and insecurities to such a judgmental world, admitting that I don't actually have it together some (most) of the time? Well, my friends, I suspect I'm not the only one struggling with status and image. Under all of these veils of perfection I see around me, there must be an awful lot of well-disguised hurt and imperfection. So if such a simple little approach helped me glean a great deal of additional happiness out of my already cushy life, I daresay it might benefit you in some way, too. I've learned before that image is what you make of it, and I'm thankful that this week has helped me regain what I hope to maintain: the ability to be happy, the confidence to be real, and the grace to allow others to feel loved enough and safe enough to be genuine, too. We all have rough patches. We all need unconditional support. And at the end of the day, we all deserve to be loved and accepted simply for the person we were made to be--no Prada required!

Feel like you're stuck in a rut, too, and want to join the Contentment Project? Print out a sheet and get started...only one week to a happier you!

Next up:
The Contentment Project, Part II: If Quality Time is Money, My Investments are Shot...