I know you. You're always going to start investing in individual common stocks someday.
When you learn enough.
When you get your next bonus.
When your savings account or IRA or mutual fund hits a magic number.
When the market pulls back.
When you get your tax refund.
When the bald, loud guy on TV confirms that the time is right.
When you pay off your credit card debt. (Well, this one might have some validity to it.)
When you get a raise or win the lottery or your great Aunt Gertrude dies and unexpectedly leaves you her baby grand piano - which you don't play.
Enough.
Stop waiting. Just do it. Scrape together a few bucks from somewhere, be it your next paycheck or part of the mutual fund you own in your retirement account. Stop waiting for a sign from the heavens and get thee to a discount broker. Merrill Edge. Ameritrade. Fidelity. It doesn't matter. Stumble your way through the on-line account application (and transfer process if you are moving your retirement account). Call the 800 number. Ask questions. Do what you've got to do because there is no perfect time, there never has been and never will be. Do it now.
Buy one share in one company that you believe in with all your heart, a product that you use and understand, a company you like so much you want to own it forever. If that's all you can afford, then buy that one share. Or two or five. It doesn't matter. Stop being afraid and pull the plug because that's the day you become a real investor, when you've got real money on the line, money that you earned and saved, when you stop buying these stupid generic funds and decide for yourself what makes sense. Stop dabbling. Stop researching. Just do it.
Give up eating out for a month - not forever - just a month. Take that same money that you would have diddled away on waffles (oh, I know they're yummy) and carry out (yes, you're tired after a long day at work and I know you don't feel like cooking), and pale ales (oh, I know it's not easy) and make your first stock investment. Who knows, if you can cold turkey on the $10 lunches, the $20 Happy Hours for one month - maybe you could stretch it to two. And then you'd have enough to buy another share of something that would really get you somewhere.
Stop waiting. Be an owner. Reinvest the dividends. Care about the future - yours and our common good. Because that's what it means to own individual common stocks. Ticker symbols mean something beyond the random letters and numbers. They are our collective future, visions to believe in that will make your life rich in a way you can never suspect until you're on your way. You've got to start somewhere, so start wherever you are. Start now.
How to make your own investment decisions and live a rich life
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Monday, July 7, 2014
Mindful Spending
About three times a day I tell my husband how annoying he is.
"You've got me trained like a dog," I say. It's the consistency of his simple messages, delivered every time I think about spending money (or leave dirty dishes in the sink) that is so effective - like boot camp, I imagine.
We're on vacation and like a regular person, I want to go into a cute, little gift shop and look around, but as soon as I step inside, he immediately asks, "What do we need?" I glance at the charming little doodads, the sparkly things, souvenirs that will soon gather dust on shelves, forgotten. Then I take a deep breath and head right back out the door.
The telephone in our bedroom goes on the fritz. I tell Michele I'm going to shop for another one on-line and he doesn't even blink. "Do we need it?" he asks. In my mind I'm thinking we've always had a telephone next to our bed. My parents always had a telephone next to their bed. Everybody does. In case of emergencies in the middle of the night. "There's a phone on the fax machine in the hall," Michele reminds me. And I have to admit he has a point. The phone's been broken for three or four weeks and nobody has died.
Welcome to my life. This happens with every soft drink purchase ("I saw a drinking fountain next to the restrooms."); every time I suggest we stop at a fast food restaurant ("There's roast turkey in the refrigerator at home."); every time I want to buy a new pair of shoes ("How many pairs do you need? You only have two feet.") .
This is 2014 and I came into this marriage with my own money, so don't think I always do what Michele tells me to. Just a few days ago I bought the shoes anyway. But it takes such energy to justify my needs and overcome my husband's inevitable objections, that the object of my momentary affections is hardly ever worth the effort.
Before Michele, like most Americans, I used to enjoy shopping. It was fun. Something I did with friends or my sisters as a social activity. But after three or four years of, "What do we need?" I noticed something strange happening to my brain. I no longer got that pleasant little buzz of dopa-mine when I handed my credit card to the saleslady for my latest purchase. Shopping became something to be endured and female friends felt self-conscious while I halfheartedly pretended to look at the sales rack after our lunches.
After Michele I noticed that our net worth increased at a significantly faster rate. We had more choice and our lives were rich and satisfying - not at all deprived. We got more pleasure from finding cheap wines we liked, daily specials, and free concerts in the park than I ever did from buying without giving it any thought. The packed lunches we ate in airports were not just cheaper, the food was healthier with better quality ingredients. Now I'm proud to tell people, "I'm cheap." I worry less and in our fifties, work is a choice, not a necessity.
When I came into this marriage thirteen years ago, I understood how to make money. But there are two sides to every balance sheet and I've seen surgeons earning $400,000 a year have to file for bankruptcy. Thank-goodness my very annoying husband showed me purchase by purchase how little it takes to live a great life. Together we make an amazing team.
"You've got me trained like a dog," I say. It's the consistency of his simple messages, delivered every time I think about spending money (or leave dirty dishes in the sink) that is so effective - like boot camp, I imagine.
We're on vacation and like a regular person, I want to go into a cute, little gift shop and look around, but as soon as I step inside, he immediately asks, "What do we need?" I glance at the charming little doodads, the sparkly things, souvenirs that will soon gather dust on shelves, forgotten. Then I take a deep breath and head right back out the door.
The telephone in our bedroom goes on the fritz. I tell Michele I'm going to shop for another one on-line and he doesn't even blink. "Do we need it?" he asks. In my mind I'm thinking we've always had a telephone next to our bed. My parents always had a telephone next to their bed. Everybody does. In case of emergencies in the middle of the night. "There's a phone on the fax machine in the hall," Michele reminds me. And I have to admit he has a point. The phone's been broken for three or four weeks and nobody has died.
Welcome to my life. This happens with every soft drink purchase ("I saw a drinking fountain next to the restrooms."); every time I suggest we stop at a fast food restaurant ("There's roast turkey in the refrigerator at home."); every time I want to buy a new pair of shoes ("How many pairs do you need? You only have two feet.") .
This is 2014 and I came into this marriage with my own money, so don't think I always do what Michele tells me to. Just a few days ago I bought the shoes anyway. But it takes such energy to justify my needs and overcome my husband's inevitable objections, that the object of my momentary affections is hardly ever worth the effort.
Before Michele, like most Americans, I used to enjoy shopping. It was fun. Something I did with friends or my sisters as a social activity. But after three or four years of, "What do we need?" I noticed something strange happening to my brain. I no longer got that pleasant little buzz of dopa-mine when I handed my credit card to the saleslady for my latest purchase. Shopping became something to be endured and female friends felt self-conscious while I halfheartedly pretended to look at the sales rack after our lunches.
After Michele I noticed that our net worth increased at a significantly faster rate. We had more choice and our lives were rich and satisfying - not at all deprived. We got more pleasure from finding cheap wines we liked, daily specials, and free concerts in the park than I ever did from buying without giving it any thought. The packed lunches we ate in airports were not just cheaper, the food was healthier with better quality ingredients. Now I'm proud to tell people, "I'm cheap." I worry less and in our fifties, work is a choice, not a necessity.
When I came into this marriage thirteen years ago, I understood how to make money. But there are two sides to every balance sheet and I've seen surgeons earning $400,000 a year have to file for bankruptcy. Thank-goodness my very annoying husband showed me purchase by purchase how little it takes to live a great life. Together we make an amazing team.
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