The Man Who Doesn’t Need to Be Impressive

There is a difference between having something to prove and having nothing left to prove.

THE JOURNAL · CHARACTER

Words by A. Mercer

A few weeks ago, I found myself sitting at the bar of a hotel I’ve grown rather fond of.

Nothing particularly remarkable about the evening. I had finished what I needed to do for the day, ordered a drink, and intended to spend an hour doing absolutely nothing productive.

A man sat two seats down from me. He was perhaps twenty years older than I was. Navy sweater. White Oxford. An old steel watch I couldn't identify from where I was sitting. Well-worn loafers. The sort of clothes you notice because they look right rather than because they look expensive. We eventually started talking. Cars first, I think, then travel, then business. He asked what I did. I told him and then he asked another question.

This continued for perhaps twenty minutes before I realized something slightly embarrassing. I knew almost nothing about him. Not because I hadn't asked, but

because every time the conversation found its way toward him, he seemed perfectly content giving a simple answer and returning the conversation somewhere else.

Eventually, someone walked through the lobby, saw him and came over. Their conversation revealed more about the man in ninety seconds than he had revealed about himself in the previous half hour.

He had built a successful company. Sold it years earlier. Owned a home somewhere I knew wasn't inexpensive. Apparently had quite a car collection.

None of this had come up. Not once.

After the other gentleman left, we carried on talking. He didn't explain, didn't provide the missing details, didn't suddenly become more interesting now that I knew he was successful. He simply took another sip of his drink and asked me where I thought the best driving roads were, I liked him considerably more for it.

And on the way home, I found myself thinking about how rare that has become.

I Think We All Want to Be Impressive

I certainly have. There have been times in my life when I wanted people to know what I was doing.

What I was building.

What I had accomplished.

What I owned.

Where I had been.

Perhaps you've done the same.

You buy something you're proud of and suddenly become remarkably talented at positioning it in a photograph.

You have a good year professionally and find ways to mention it without technically mentioning it.

Someone tells a story and, almost involuntarily, you begin searching your memory for one that might be slightly better.

They've been to Italy. You've been twice.

They met someone interesting. You know him.

They bought their first nice watch. You know a little about watches.

Before long, what began as a conversation becomes a quiet competition nobody agreed to enter.

I've caught myself doing it and whenever I do, I wonder what exactly I was hoping to win.

The Older I Get, the Less Interested I Am in Explaining Myself

I don't mean that in some grand, enlightened sense. I still care what people think.

Anyone who tells you they don't care at all is either lying or considerably more evolved than I am, but I care less than I used to.

And more importantly, I'm beginning to understand whose opinions deserve the privilege of mattering.

That's been a useful distinction. There are people whose judgment I value enormously.

My family.

A few close friends.

People I respect.

People who have built something I admire.

People who know me well enough to recognize the difference between a good decision and one I've simply managed to justify eloquently.

Everyone else?

Their approval is pleasant. It just isn't necessary.

That realization has made life considerably quieter.

I Bought Something Recently and Didn't Tell Anyone

This shouldn't be noteworthy. It was. I had wanted it for some time. I'd researched it, thought about it, decided against it, thought about it again, and eventually bought it.

Then something strange happened.

I didn't photograph it.

I didn't post it.

I didn't find a reason to bring it into conversation.

I simply enjoyed owning it.

And I remember thinking:

This is better.

Not because there is anything wrong with sharing things you're excited about. I do that too, but because there was something satisfying about allowing the pleasure to remain mine.

No reaction required.

No validation.

Nobody needed to understand why I liked it.

I liked it. That was enough.

I think we should do more of that.

Would You Still Want It If Nobody Knew?

I've started asking myself this.

About clothes.

Cars.

Watches.

Travel.

Even certain ambitions.

Would I still want this if nobody could ever know I had it?

Sometimes the answer is immediately yes.

Those are usually the good ones.

Other times I hesitate. Those are worth examining.

Because there is nothing wrong with wanting nice things.

Anyone who has read this Journal for more than five minutes knows I'm not going to suddenly suggest we all abandon our possessions and live in a cabin with one pair of trousers.

I like good clothes.

I like watches.

I like cars.

I like beautiful hotels and good restaurants and things that have been made properly.

But I increasingly want to own them because they make my life better, not because I hope they'll improve someone else's opinion of it.

That's a subtle difference.

It may also be the difference between taste and performance.

There Is Something Wonderful About Being Underestimated

I didn't always think this.

Being underestimated used to bother me.

I wanted to correct the record.

If someone didn't understand what I did, I explained.

If they underestimated what I knew, I demonstrated it.

If they formed the wrong impression, I felt some strange responsibility to fix it.

I'm becoming much more comfortable letting them be wrong.

Not arrogantly.

Not with some private fantasy that they'll eventually discover my extraordinary brilliance and regret everything. Simply because correcting every person's perception of you is exhausting.

Somebody thinks your business is smaller than it is? Fine.

Someone assumes you can't afford the expensive option because you chose the sensible one? Fine.

Someone doesn't recognize your watch? Even better.

Someone doesn't know who you know? Excellent.

You do not need to submit supporting documentation every time somebody misunderstands your life.

Let them. Then get on with it.

I've Also Learned to Say “I Don't Know”

This took longer than it should have.

There was a time when I felt I needed an opinion about nearly everything.

Business.

Politics.

Wine.

Cars.

Markets.

Architecture.

Something happening in a country I'd never visited involving people whose names I'd learned twelve minutes earlier. I could produce a theory.

Most men can. We are remarkably versatile in this regard.

These days I find myself saying I don't know more often.

Or even better:

Tell me about it.

Those words have introduced me to far more interesting conversations than pretending I already knew the answer. There is a confidence in not needing to demonstrate intelligence every time an unfamiliar subject appears. You get to become curious again and curious people are usually far more interesting than people who already know everything.

The Same Thing Happened With Clothes

When I was younger, I thought dressing well meant people should notice.

Now I'm not sure that's the goal.

I still want the jacket to fit properly.

I still care about the shoes.

I still think a man should understand the occasion he's dressing for.

But once I leave the house, I don't want to think about my clothes anymore.

I certainly don't want to explain them.

The jacket should simply look right.

The trousers should simply fit.

The watch should disappear beneath the cuff until I need to know the time.

If somebody asks about something, wonderful.

If nobody does, the evening has not been a failure.

The clothes did their job.

They allowed me to forget about them and perhaps confidence works the same way.

Let Someone Else Have the Better Story

I'm working on this one.

Someone tells you about something wonderful that happened to them.

There is a tiny moment where you have a choice.

You can ask another question.

Or you can begin:

"That reminds me of when I..."

Sometimes that's how conversation works. Stories connect to stories, but sometimes—if we're willing to admit it—we're taking the spotlight back. I've started trying to leave it where it is. You bought your first good watch? Tell me about it. You finally took the trip you've been talking about? What was your favorite part? your business had its best year?

That's fantastic. What changed? I don't need to mention mine. There will be another conversation and I've noticed something. When you stop waiting for your turn to be interesting, people become extraordinarily interesting.

Keep the Older Car

A friend once asked me when I was going to replace something I owned.

I won't say what it was because then I'll be doing precisely what this article is about.

But the implication was clear.

I could afford the newer one.

Why hadn't I bought it?

And for a moment, I felt that familiar little pull. Maybe I should.

Then I realized: I still liked mine, it worked, and it did everything I wanted it to do. Replacing it would have solved a problem that existed almost entirely in somebody else's perception of me so I kept it.

This is an oddly satisfying thing to do.

Success creates pressure to continually upgrade the evidence of success.

Better house.

Better car.

Better watch.

Better hotel.

Better seat on the airplane.

There is always another level available.

At some point, you have to decide whether you're building a life or maintaining a showroom.

Sometimes the most luxurious answer is: No, this is still perfectly good.

And Then There Is Home

This is the part I think about most.

At the end of the evening, everyone goes home.

The restaurant empties.

The event finishes.

The meeting ends.

The jacket comes off.

The watch lands on the nightstand.

The car goes into the garage.

The phone eventually stops buzzing.

And all the things we spend so much time using to explain ourselves to the world lose their audience. What remains is remarkably ordinary.

The people who know you.

The work you've done.

The promises you've kept.

The conversations you probably should have handled better.

The child who doesn't care what your title is.

The person beside you who knew you before whatever success you're currently enjoying and will presumably still be there when nobody at the restaurant remembers your name.

That puts things into perspective.

The older gentleman at the hotel bar seemed to understand this.

Maybe that's why I remember him. He had nothing to prove to me.

And because he wasn't trying to impress me, he did.

A Note to Myself

Perhaps this entire piece is really that.

A note to myself. So I'll leave it here in case you need the reminder too.

Build things you're proud of.

Work hard.

Earn well.

Dress properly.

Travel.

Learn.

Buy the watch if you love the watch.

Buy the car if driving it makes you take the longer way home.

Order the good bottle occasionally.

Celebrate what you've accomplished.

There is no virtue in pretending you don't enjoy success.

Just don't become its publicist.

Let someone underestimate you.

Let another man tell the better story.

Say I don't know.

Keep something after you can afford to replace it.

Enjoy something nobody knows you own.

Ask another question.

Go home.

And remember that the people whose opinions matter most probably stopped being impressed by your possessions a long time ago.

They are watching something else.

Whether you show up.

Whether you keep your word.

Whether you're kind when there is nothing to gain.

Whether you're becoming someone they can rely on.

Perhaps becoming a gentleman is partly the process of needing fewer witnesses.

I don't think I've mastered that yet.

But I'm beginning to understand the appeal.

Have substance. Let other people discover it.

Until next time,

A. Mercer

FORM & CHARACTER

The Art of Living Well.