I was at a party once, when I was asked what I would prefer to be, if I had the choice – rich, famous or beautiful. It is not such a daft question as it sounds. I often used to interview pampered rock stars, and their answers to this question were quite revealing, as it became clear that they lived a rarefied existence where such navel-gazing was commonplace. However, everyone present would feel able to venture an opinion, and clear differences emerged.
By far the biggest majority of people say Rich. In our material times, having enough in the bank to pay for daily needs, doesn’t amount to a feeling of satisfaction. We either want the outward signs and trappings of success; like fast cars, and homes in exotic locations, or we want enough to fulfill a personal dream that seems elusive without cash; whether that means owning a football club or a Fabergé egg. Some people see wealth as a way out of their otherwise dull existence, and imagine they would attract a better mate, or discover that it opens doors that previously seemed barred, although many say that being rich would simply take away the worry of providing for family.
After rich, people are divided more equally between famous and beautiful. Here the debate becomes heated, as arguments arise as to which of the three answers is ‘correct’. Some lateral thinkers amongst you will have worked out that all three are interlinked; after all, with riches you can pay for plastic surgery and may become infamous. With great beauty, may come media celebrity and wealth. Fame often comes with a pricetag, and can pay for the appearance of beauty. At this point it becomes obvious that no one answer is right, all are sides of the same coin.
The most memorable answer came from a bass player in a little known ‘indie’ band called Bark Psychosis. “Beautiful¬- like having a beautiful soul, yeah?” Faces changed as if to say “Wish I’d though of saying that!” Those who boldly stated Rich, then often wanted to justify why they wanted money, and give it a more altruistic sheen, like giving money to charity to redistribute world wealth, or pay for Grandma’s eye operation.
It seems that what we wish for is really linked to what we fear most. Our most potent dreams are to compensate for our human flaws. I wanted fame. Perhaps to avoid being that nondescript kid at school who was neither clever nor funny nor popular enough. And my adult fears are no longer about money or my looks. I have given up worrying about both; probably since I have been homeless and penniless at least once, and with a partner, three kids and a new crop of grey hairs I no longer worry about being left alone. (Some days, I positively crave being a solitary gin-sozzled old crone, with the freedom to act crazy in the supermarket queue.)
Of course, if my fame were linked to a world-class achievement like discovering a cure for cancer based on eating sugared almonds in bulk, I could justify craving notoriety. But, hey ho. I’ll settle for publishing the first Booker prize winning comedy sci-fi novel, I guess.
