I'm standing at the Campton Place Hotel on Stockton St. in San Francisco. I've decided to retrieve my car from the valet parking after learning that the hotel would charge me $51 per night for the valet parking. Except that it's not my car, it's my business partner's second car, a ten year old Volvo station wagon with unused diapers all over the back seat and a hippie bumper sticker on the back window. On top of a $245 room rate, with tax, this valet rate gets me to $350 per night. I'm used to paying that in New York, but not in San Francisco.
I'm here with a group of business leaders who are investors in microfinance institutions around the world. We need to be at our first meeting place, a gorgeous tri-level home on a hill overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge, the Exploratorium, and most of the San Francisco Bay, by 9:30am, and it's now 9:10am. The valet attendant has told me that it will take 15 minutes to get my car. Four of my colleagues walk out of the hotel to hail a taxi. My heart skips a beat.
What if the valet guy brings the car around right now? This is such an affluent group. The people in my local chapter drive cars worth anywhere from $80,000 to $400,000. What will they think of me? Do I care? Should I care?
I've never identified myself as a Star, one of the eight financial archetypes I created in writing my book . But these are clearly the questions of the Star, who uses money to increase recognition and self-esteem. I don't want to care, but I also want these guys to think I'm successful. We're about to sit in 2 days of meetings brainstorming about how to use the best methods of scalable business and sound investing to end global poverty. I want my opinions to be valued, and like it or not, if they think I'm a poser or wannabe in this svelte group, they might not.
The taxicab pulls up. I say to Dave, who is standing nearest to me, "You're welcome to drive with me, or you can jump in the cab. They're bringing my car from the garage because I just didn't want to pay $51 for valet parking. Actually, it's my partner's second car." Looking at him, I can see that he didn't hear the part about it being my partner's second car. Perhaps a part of me didn't want him to hear it. A part of me hopes that Dave will jump in the cab with our friends so that he won't see the Volvo. But instead he says, "Sure, I'll ride with you," and he yells out to the other four "Just go ahead, I'll keep Brent company."
Standing there, I imagine the moment the car pulls up. I anticipate my desire to reiterate that the Volvo isn't my car, not even my partner's primary car, but his secondary car. I promise myself I'm not going to say anything more about it and just deal with whatever feelings come up internally. It will be a good practice.
The valet pulls the car up, and it's now clear we're going to be late, which increases my discomfort. I see Dave look at the car, and I feel myself almost desperate to tell him, again, that itís not my car. I bite my tongue.
As we start driving, I get in touch with a feeling that maybe I do want YPOers to see me driving cheap cars. Maybe it's better for these guys who are almost exclusively Empire Builders, Stars & Pleasure Seekers to feel a bit more self-conscious about their spending. With two billion people in the world living on less than $2 per day, and kids dying due to the lack of mosquito nets or clean water (which can be provided for as little as $1 per person per year according to charityis.org), maybe it's a good thing.
Maybe when I get home, I'll buy the 1997 silver Volvo I just found on Craig's List for $3,500, put some of my own hippie bumper stickers on the window, and make sure I never wash it. Then, I'll force myself to only drive that car to YPO events, and any other place where I'm worried about what people think of my car.
Maybe.