Money Doesn’t Live Up to the Hype: Lessons from Eloise
If the Book Is a Mistake, Put it Down!
For quite a while I’ve wanted to do a series based on lessons I learned from a late friend, older than me by several decades, and wealthier than me by several millenniums. I’ll call her Eloise after the heroine in books written by Kay Thompson and illustrated by Hilary Knight (released in the 1950s) about a rich and engaging little girl who lived in the fanciest hotel in New York City.
“I am Eloise. I am six. I am a city child. I live at the Plaza.” 
Eloise fits for a name as my friend’s youth was similar to that of to that of the girl in the Plaza though her city was slightly smaller than New York and she did grow up in an actual house. A very, very nice house with an extra for servants, but a house. We had a lot of jokes contrasting her life in the big city with a driver and an American Express and mine in Falfurrias, Texas, with my sister’s bicycle and a lending card for the only library in town at the Presbyterian Church.
As Eloise grew less able, in order to keep going as a single woman she paid my way on excursions and health driven programs, venues I’d never have the resources to experience on my own dime. We had many, many hours in luxury surroundings and hospitals. We shared life as we’d known it. As a kid whose parents were teachers, and who has had a job since I was fourteen, Eloise’s life fascinated me partly because she grew up with the advantages I assumed led to happiness.
Did I mention that Eloise was also brilliant and beautiful in classic ways I’d never be accused of possessing? And that I miss her terribly?
I learned a lot from Eloise. In the future I will share what I learned about what money won’t do for you no matter how much you have. Eloise had many life struggles and could claim no time of feeling ‘happy and satisfied.’ If life had lived up to her dreams, one of her husbands or children would have heard her stories–not me.
As I listened, I learned. I paid attention to the habits that contributed to Eloise’s ongoing sadness and frustration. One of the lessons I’d promised myself to remember was Eloise’s emotional prison when it came to reading. Eloise was very educated and a constant reader on all sorts of subjects. But reading also caused Eloise distress.
Many times I heard the lament: “Once I’ve started a book, no matter how much I do not like the book, I have to finish it.”
Which brings us to the point of the current entry and how Eloise’s lesson relates to other MysteryShrink entries and the principals of Bowen Theory. The most essential element of Bowen Theory is that each of us has two guidance systems potentially in charge of our life experience. The more our actions and decisions are based on our ‘feelings’ over our ‘thoughts’ the more likely we are to engage in and persist in self-destructive behavior.
Many an hour I worked on Eloise with logic and reason. I failed to convince Eloise to give up on one book over two decades. She reminded me often of the previous night’s hours of misery and the hours to come as she trudged faithfully through the latest book recommended by someone else but miserably disappointing for Eloise. I promised myself I would never be caught in the same dissatisfying pattern.
I also promised myself I would never burden anyone else with complaints about a book I refused to stop reading. I did not succeed with either promise.
Fast forward to two days ago at the Sushi Maki Restaurant at the Miami Airport. My husband and I are on return from Panama City, Panama. I’d picked up a book at the airport bookstore and spent the three hours over the Caribbean reading and complaining about the book’s lack of substance, yet refusing to put the book down. What’s particularly sad is that I’d been through this misery three times with the same author who always started with a compelling female character then failed to come across with a story.
I was knee-deep in the very self-made ‘book prison’ I’d determined I would avoid because I’d seen how the behavior contributed to Eloise’s chronic unhappiness.
Perched in a booth in Maki Sushi’s Restaurant in the Miami, I alternately made the case for quitting the book and gave reasons why I couldn’t quit. Unfortunately for the fellow, we had over three hours before our eight o’clock flight to Austin. The extra time meant we could enjoy a cafe which wasn’t even in the same terminal as the departure gate.
We lingered over conversations of a psychological nature mixed with my criticisms of myself for buying the demon book. I repeatedly remarked that, if I had a lick of good sense, I’d toss it in the trash and buy a new one.
Instead of taking positive action, I read particularly wretched passages out-loud to my captive audience in an inane attempt to justify throwing away a book I’d spent $12 dollars on–$12 spent after three previous bad experiences with the author. He listened, his eyes glazed, he ordered sake. Every few minutes, he’d suggest I throw the dang thing away and go buy another, particularly since the Miami airport bookstore selection would be better than in Panama.
I’d agree. Ten I’d read him another sentence.
Then, I remembered Eloise and all those hours of misery. I actually kicked the crazy ‘book prison’ to the curb. I stood to go straight to the nearest receptacle then on to a bookstore. And here’s where Eloise’s lesson went south. To time my book search, I glanced at my spouse’s watch.
This is the exact conversation that followed:
Me: “What time is it?”
Him: “A quarter to seven. We still have forty-five minutes before they even start to board.”
Me: “Yeah. That gives me plenty of time to replace this @%#$%$# book.”
Him: “Okay, I’ll stay here and finish your noodles.”
Me: “Sounds good. . . . Say, Panama was on the same time zone as Texas, right?”
Him: “Yep. Both Central Standard.”
Me: “Did you ever change your watch?”
Him: “No, like I said, didn’t need to.”
Me: “But—Florida . . .”
Him: “Oh great.” He shook his head. “That means it’s actually only a quarter to six. Seems like we’ve been in this sushi place forever.”
Me: “Nuuuu. What that means is, it’s actually fourteen minutes to eight and four minutes before they close the door on our flight.”
Him: “Gasp!” Deer in the sake-soaked sushi headlights.
Uncounted twenties hit the table. Computer bags dragged over soggy lo mein, fortune cookies flew, curses rained down on the glossy red, fat happy Buddha. This unremarkable not so young woman went rogue. No words. No time. I launched out of the booth and down the wide hallways–all sorts of baggage appendages banging my knees. I knew he was back there and total concentration on the gallop was our only hope.
Now, hold on all you younger relatives and naysayers. The reason I’m even sharing all this with you guys who shudder to hear we’re tottering around Panama or wherever is –-because we made it.
The downside, of course, was the book and the lesson from Eloise. With a three and a half hour flight yawning into the night, what could I do? I read the whole thing. Book report: (I shall not reveal the title, though I’d love to save you the distress. I won’t because tastes vary, and because I can’t bring myself to put down any author who has the stamina to write a book.) But I will sum the volume up for you:
The Sandra Bullock movie “28 Days” if you take out all the funny parts.
