Confessions of a Lazy Millionaire

Yay! My package came in the mail. Inside are two scarves. Or "mobius scarves," as their manufacturer calls them. Because who can resist an accessory that claims to know something about non-Euclidean geometry? Now people who want to appear intelligent no longer need to wear pocket protectors. Math nerds, too, can be chic.1

Indeed, these scarves are lovely. They have a raggedy sort of polish to them, like fabric necklaces. They are exactly what I needed.

But oops, they are not quite the colors I like to wear. They are kind of bright. Like Playdoh, or birthday cake lettering. I am selective about colors, and I especially like not to be mistaken for a traffic light.

What to do, what to do?

Maybe I can dye them. Now that's an idea! I quickly start Googling professional fabric dyers. I discover that cotton and linen are the most dye-able of fabrics, which is splendid because cotton and linen are exactly what these scarves are made of.

I call my friend who has an interest in these things. I email her a link with pictures of the scarves so she can understand how simultaneously right and wrong they are, and help me map out a plan for scarf rehabilitation. "We really do have an emergency brewing," she agrees. Let the conference begin.

Finally I find the fabric-dyer website of my dreams. Apparently, they can do anything. In their photo gallery, white lace curtains are reborn a delectable orange. A brown suede belt is reinvented in black.

"How much do they charge?" my friend asks.

Well, I explain relevantly, the scarves were on sale. They were originally $39 each, but I got mine for only $9. That gives me a $60 budget for modifications.

People can organize their budgets any way they want, but I The sheer volume of things it is possible to not do all at once is staggering. personally ascribe to the accounting theory that a penny saved is a penny earned. Obviously a return counts as profit, but so does a purchase never made. Sometimes, when in need of quick profit, I just drive to the mall and go home.

But back to the crisis at hand.

This website is fascinating. "They are fabric fixers to the stars!" I enthuse to my friend. "It says here: 'We can get your garment back to you in 24 hours.'" We are suitably impressed. Maybe I really will get these things dyed, someday.

"Well, it's been great chatting," we both say. It is time to go to sleep. But first I must pay my phone bill. I use the $60 I haven't just spent on dyeing, of course.

I go to sleep, but my sleeping brain continues to calculate. There are probably more than $60 floating around there to be spent, because I never found out how much the dye job would actually cost. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if I didn't spend close to $100.

This brings me to something that has long engrossed me: the concept of not doing. The sheer volume of things it is possible to not do all at once is staggering.

For example, just while lying here asleep, here is a partial list of the many things I am not doing:

• I am not reading a book.
• I am not calling my aunt in Australia.
• I am not training a dolphin.

Opportunity to not do calls to me from all over the place; my eyes leap hither and thither. (Or maybe this is what they call REM sleep?).

It occurs to me that these horizons of not doing that I am finding so dream-like and enticing have a Torah parallel. An important part of the Torah is a list of 365 things not to do. They are crucial to Jewish observance, and not doing them accomplishes appropriately staggering things in the spiritual realms.

Now, that’s a reason for a sense of satisfaction that does not depend on having accomplished anything, which I am always in the market for. As our Sages say: “One who passively abstains from sin is rewarded as though he had actively performed a mitzvah”(Kiddushin 39b).

Which means, according the author of the Tanya, that “one should rejoice in one’s compliance with a ‘don’t’ just as one does when performing an actual positive precept” (Tanya, ch. 27).

Eventually, it is morning again.