This is probably controversial: I think using money to eliminate every minor inconvenience from your life is a negative in the long run. There's a certain level of inconvenience that's just an important part of the human experience. The smooth, textureless life is the forgotten life. Experiencing friction is part of being human. Some of your most memorable life experiences are so memorable precisely because they had friction. It's why you still laugh about the trip when your bags got lost by the airline and you had to wing it. When your flights got cancelled. When the hotel lost your reservation. When all your plans went awry. And friction builds tolerance for the inevitable chaos of life. I know so many people who have obsessively removed friction from their life and now seem to be utterly thrown by the tiniest thing. They've got private planes, private drivers, and private chefs. People managing and staffing their various houses. All the trappings of a friction-free life. But then get absolutely derailed by the smallest unexpected bump in the road. As with all things in life, when it comes to reducing friction, the dose makes the poison. A little bit of friction reduction is good. You reduce your stress. You improve your happiness. A medium bit is maybe even better. But a lot becomes toxic to your life. Not diminishing returns. Negative returns. Be wary of the blind pursuit of friction elimination. You may find that the friction was what made your life feel real.

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The older I get, the more I realize that the happiest people are very difficult to rush. I recently sat next to a gentleman on a flight who was returning from his 60th high school reunion. We struck up a conversation and ended up chatting for the whole time we were in the air. When we landed, everyone leapt up to grab their bags as fast as possible. Except for him. He sat there, sipping the plastic cup of wine from the flight. I asked if I could grab his bag, but he just shook his head. I must have given him a funny look, because he smiled: "I never understood the rush. We're all going to the same place, after all." I figured he meant baggage claim, but as I walked out of the airport, I realized my mistake. The same place was more meta than I originally understood. And he was in no rush to beat everyone there. The world wants you to rush into everything. Rushed decisions. Rushed conversations. Rushed relationships. Rushed timelines. In doing so, you slowly relinquish your agency. You give up your claim on your own life. Surrender authorship to a pen that was never even yours. In a world that wants you to rush, the ultimate act of rebellion is presence. The happiest people always strike me as very difficult to rush. They act slowly and deliberately. When they move with urgency, it's because they want to, not because of some arbitrary pressure. It's small things that give it away: • They let people go ahead in traffic • They greet workers at a coffee shop • They look up instead of down at their phone I've started trying to embrace a few tiny acts of slow rebellion per day. And while the rush instinct is still there, every time I resist it, I think of that gentleman on the flight. Smiling, sipping his airplane red wine, in no rush to beat anyone to the place we're all headed.

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