Every morning I face the arduous task of choosing which shirt to wear.  As I gaze into my closet, I ponder my decision.

What to wear?  What to wear?

I like variety, but I’m far too impatient to tolerate shopping for new shirts.  In fact, I last bought new shirts about three years ago when Daveen and I visited a tailor. He took my measurements and sent them to Hong Kong for production.

I need custom shirts that have two pockets — one for my iPhone, and the second for a pen, notes, and whatever. Especially whatever.

Deciding what to wear is one of many choices I make throughout the day.  Each decision is influenced by a variety of factors.  I am conscious of some, but others maybe not. Who knows why I like a particular color, or find a certain fabric more pleasing than others?  Several months ago, a waitress at Art’s deli paused after refilling my water glass to tell me how much she liked my shirt. I rarely receive a compliment on my clothing, and must admit that, since then, I have worn that shirt more often than I otherwise might.

When deciding what to wear, do we dress for ourselves, or for the approval of others?  For me, it’s a combination of both. I want to be socially acceptable, but I also want to express my own taste. Even so, every morning I have the same dilemma — shall I wear my favorite shirt today or save it for tomorrow?

This is why I seldom wear my very best (and by far my most expensive) shirt. It hangs in my closet, saying to me — “Save me for a really important occasion. Today just isn’t important enough.”

When I was young, I remember that a friend’s mother used to serve a mélange of different melons cut into little balls. Some of the melons were sweet, some were not. But I noticed that everyone at the dinner table always saved the sweetest melon balls for last.

So, as we start a new day, the question always is — shall I save my best until … forever? Or should I choose to make today my very best shirt day. And that begins with a choice…

But today, I’ve already decided. Today I’m going to wear my second-best shirt. I’ll save my very best for tomorrow.  And my best shirt is amazing –- it always looks brand new.  Both times I’ve worn it.

Alan

When I woke up this morning, I checked my calendar, as is my usual custom, to see what meetings or deadlines I had scheduled. There was just one word for today. “Blog.”

A sense of freedom burst forth, and I felt an immediate rush of relief. Other than writing this blog, which I enjoy, I had no responsibilities for the entire day. Isn’t that what we all work for — a lifetime of retirement Sundays, stretching into the foreseeable future?

And yet, despite being relieved of responsibilities, I felt a twinge of sadness. For years, I’ve defined myself by being productive at “work.” For years I’d been riding the “Productivity Bus”, and it’s been impossible for me to get off. I must have purchased the “eternal” ticket, because twenty-one years ago I passed the age of normal retirement, and today the second oldest person in my company is a quarter of a century younger than I am and won’t catch up to me (in age).  Ever.

But since I’m the founder of my company and set my own work hours, I can write my blog at home.  Even while lying in bed.  And that gives me much of the time-freedom I’ve always treasured.

But a calendar is always a tradeoff. It tells you what you have planned, both your obligations and your social engagements and, hopefully, keeps your appointments from tumbling all over each other. But it also forces you to plan in advance, and it can lock you into specific commitments to avoid two or three lunch dates in the same day. (Unless you are unusually sociable. Or really hungry).

And that reminds me of breakfast, which has lately been semi-instant oatmeal from Trader Joe’s.  I recommend it.

Today, there is time for writing, and a separate time for eating. And a time to reflect and enjoy my sense of freedom.

But I don’t need a calendar to tell me that.

Alan

This is a photo of my favorite chair.  I advise you to never try to sit on it.  It’s a piece of art, but a very uncomfortable chair.

I bought this chair while on a cruise in Alaska.  As best I recall, Daveen politely refused to have it in our home, so it became a temporary resident of my office — for the past twenty-five years.

Lessons learned?

1. When buying furniture or art or other objects to decorate the public areas of our home, it’s better to consult Daveen in advance.
2. Not everyone shares my taste in art. Or chairs.
3. My office is decorated in a jumble of different styles, all of which reflect my eclectic taste.  (Not just gold, gold, gold like the present Oval Office in D.C.)
4. I’m better at buying things than I am at organizing them in any kind of coherent order. Kind of like my shoes at night – which mysteriously turn up in unusual places, although I always find them in the morning – in the bedroom, or bathroom.  Or kitchen.  And even sometimes in the closet.
5. While my organizing style is unreliable, my taste is consistent. I still like the chair.

But we live in a world where we all compare ourselves with others all the time. There is a tale I have shared over the years, which seems particularly relevant to this blog. Years ago, Gina, a dear friend of mine, referred a new investor to me.  The investor visited my offices and reported back to Gina that she wouldn’t invest with me. My office had failed the “Century City Chic” Test.

Three years later Gina mentioned to me that her friend was now REALLY not going to invest with me.

“Why?” I asked.  “Is my office in worse shape now than it was then?”

“No, Alan.  She invested everything she had with her Century City financial advisor.  And he lost it.”

I know I’ve made more than a few poor investment decisions myself, and my fish chair may be one of them. But I also feel uniquely attached to it. This might be the only chair of its kind that exists and, to me, it’s special.

Hmmm, I wonder which one of my children I should leave it to?

And, from an investment point of view… never judge a man by his chair.

Alan