The Happiness Project: Or, Why I Spent a Year Trying to Sing in the Morning, Clean My Closets, Fight Right, Read Aristotle, and Generally Have More Fun

he still hasn’t used it. The tennis racquet is an expression of his desire to change something in his life, but just making a purchase won’t accomplish that. He should have concentrated on fixing his calendar, not on finding the right racquet.
     
    “Buy some happiness,” of course, has its limits. I knew I’d better not overlook the effects of the hedonic treadmill, which quickly transforms delightful luxuries into dull necessities. Indulging in a modest splurge would give me a happiness jolt only if I did it rarely. Take room ser vice. Until my honeymoon, I’d never had room ser vice in my life—and it was a thrill. But if I traveled for business and got room ser vice frequently, it wouldn’t be a treat anymore.
    Because money permits a constant stream of luxuries and indulgences, it can take away their savor, and by permitting instant gratification, money shortcuts the happiness of anticipation. Scrimping, saving, imagining, planning, hoping—these stages enlarge the happiness we feel.
    Even a modest pleasure can be a luxury if it’s scarce enough—ordering coffee at a restaurant, buying a book, or watching TV—which is why deprivation is one of the most effective, although unenjoyable, cures for the hedonic treadmill. A friend told me that when she lived in Russia in the 1990s, the hot water would periodically stop working for weeks at a time. She said that very few experiences in her life have matched the happiness she felt on the days when the hot water started working again. But now that she’s back in the United States, where her hot water has never failed, she never thinks about it.
    The hedonic treadmill means that spending often isn’t a satisfyingpath to happiness, but nevertheless, money can help. My father still talks about the day he realized that he could afford to pay someone to mow the lawn. Some of the best things in life aren’t free.
    Another way to think about money’s effect is in terms of the First Splendid Truth, as part of the “atmosphere of growth” that’s so important to happiness. We need an atmosphere of spiritual growth, and as much as some people deny it, material growth is also very satisfying.
    We’re very sensitive to change. We measure our present against our past, and we’re made happy when we see change for the better. In one study, people were asked whether they’d rather have a job that paid $30,000 in year one, $40,000 in year two, and $50,000 in year three or a job that paid $60,000, then $50,000 then $40,000. In general, people preferred the first option, with its raises—despite the fact that at the end of the three years, they would have earned only $120,000 instead of $150,000. Their decision might seem irrational, but in fact, the people who chose the first option understood the importance of growth to happiness. People are very sensitive to relative changes in their condition, for better or worse.
    A sense of growth is so important to happiness that it’s often preferable to be progressing to the summit rather than to be at the summit. Neither a scientist nor a philosopher but a novelist, Lisa Grunwald, came up with the most brilliant summation of this happiness principle: “Best is good, better is best.”
    One challenge of parenthood that I hadn’t tackled in April, though perhaps I should have, was setting limits on buying treats for my children. For example, as a surprise, I bought Eliza a big book of optical illusions. As I expected, she loved the book—pored over it, looked at it with her friends, kept it out on her bedside table. I was so pleased with myself for choosing it for her. One day, not long after, I was in a drugstore that had a rack of cheap children’s books. I spotted a book of optical illusions and almost bought it for Eliza; she’d enjoyed the other book so much. Then I stopped myself. She already had a book with three hundred illusions; this book probably didn’t have much new. But even beyond that, I wondered ifhaving two books of optical illusions might, in fact, dim Eliza’s pleasure in the first book. It wouldn’t seem as magical and definitive.
    The head of Eliza’s school told a story about a four-year-old who had a blue toy car he loved. He took it everywhere, played with it constantly. Then when his grandmother came to visit, she bought him ten toy cars, and he stopped playing with the cars altogether. “Why don’t you play with your cars?” she asked. “You loved your blue car so much.” “I