Long ago I learned the secret to eternal happiness. I'm about to share it with you, so hold onto your socks.

My parents are middle-class ex-pats -- one from France, one from New Zealand -- and both of are them somewhat disdainful of American consumerism, even though that American consumerism helped them both in their careers in the corporate sector, but never mind. The point is, they had enough money to be "comfortable," whatever that is. For my parents, comfort meant very delicious food, extensive travel, parties, days at the beach, and general leisure, which manifested in extensive gardening and DIY for my mother and tennis and practicing the guitar for my father. In other words, it meant doing things, not having things. Compared to my friends when I was growing up, I had a skimpy wardrobe and few toys. My parents drove used cars. There were no SUVs in sight. I never had the "right stuff" at school, or at least the "new stuff" that would have jetted me screaming into the upper echelons of popularity and acceptance. (OK, it wouldn't have. I'm an odd duck. I would have remained an odd duck even if I'd been in the hottest pair of jeans available.)

However, I did have a number of experiences and a particular lifestyle that my other friends' families didn't seem to provide. I was a world traveler by the age of three; had known the thrill of singing with a rock band by the age of ten; could whip up a homemade bearnaise sauce by thirteen. Sundays at the beach pretending I was a Spanish captive "building fortifications" out of dampened sand. Friday nights making crepes suzettes with my dad while he told me why time is curved (he was into physics). Thursday nights visiting the skimpy local library to stock up on summer reading with my mother. I had propelled my child body into the Mediterranean, had learned how to be comfortable while covered in sea salt, knew how to eat fresh-caught fried fish without putting sand grit between my teeth. I had watched my dad play rock music with his friends and my mother nap like a cat in the late afternoon sun. I knew what it was like to be in a car crossing a desert. I had taken lessons of many persuasions: music, dance, acting, tennis, art, whatever interested me. I was used to weekends being devoted to an impromptu trip to Northern California or to the Mexican border. Little of what my parents did on a day-to-day basis required a lot of money; those things that required money like travel were meticulously planned.

It wasn't always an easy decision for my parents, and it certainly wasn't easy for me to have less of what everyone else around had, materially.

Here's a perfect example of the family philosophy.

We were on a trip to Spain to visit my grandfather and we lost our one dinky camera on a day outing to Morocco, across the Strait of Gibraltor. Never mind: we had a good time in Morocco anyway, and an even better time in Spain, and it simply went undocumented. Once back in the states, I thought in my youthful naivete that my parents would want to replace their camera. Maybe with something cool. This occurrence occurred, by the way, right during my photography phase. I was eager to help them shop for something righteous, with lots of gadgets, that would make gorgeous, beautiful photographs. And, thought I philosophically, buying a new camera would serve the common good in that we'd be taking pictures of our experiences! And everyone is happy! When I brought this up to my dad, he laughed and said he couldn't afford the kind of camera I had hoped for. Then he announced we'd be going down to Carlsbad for the long Labor Day weekend. Wickedly angry, I stomped my foot, asking why we had money to go away for the weekend but no money for a new camera.

My father asked me, "What would you rather have, pictures of Carlsbad or the experience of Carlsbad itself?"

Oh, Papa!

Now that I'm an adult and well-versed in the art of the logical fallacy, I know that in reality cameras are not mutually exclusive with trips to Carlsbad, but at the time, the question made a distinct impression on me. Really, what was better? I could have a camera -- that would be nice, it's nice, right, to own something -- and then the pictures. I could have the pictures. I could look at them. I could see the late afternoon light filtered through palm tree fronds, the waif bodies of surfers in green tunnels of water, the families cluttered in the Carlsbad streets. I could pretend I was there, one of those people, one of those bodies, part of that light. Or I could actually be there. I could feel the heat on my skin. I could lick salt from my fingernails. I could be happy the way I knew how to be happy.

It was a grudgingly easy decision. (Also it wasn't my decision, but again, never mind.)

I don't want to imply that I never had nice things, but they were not the focus of my life. Birthday gifts were usually trips or excursions -- Christmas was only fun because of the ritual of opening presents, not because of the presents themselves. I grew up with this ideology and it has stayed with me into adulthood. It's partly because of my childhood that I chose a career that would make me happy, and for me that means a career that doesn't pull in a lot of the green. The money I do have is spent mostly on things like food, dinners with friends, concerts, and lots of travel. My material wealth resides mostly in my library. And of course, I do have a few nice gadgets, including a semi-decent camera. Right? It's all about balance. But still, comparatively speaking, I don't have a lot of clothes and wouldn't know what to do with more if I had them. I like clothes and fashion, but I don't have a lot of either. I don't have a lot of jewelry. I don't have a television, nice furniture, or matching silverware. I drive, like my parents before me, a used car. In other words, I'm living exactly the way I need to live.

This is not a condemnation on material wealth, on consumerism. I know plenty of happy, contented people who have a lot of stuff. They also have a lot of money. Like, a lot of it. They're not happy because of the money. It's more like they don't have to make the choice between lots of nice things and lots of nice experiences.

For me, though, on my comfortable salary, I'm happy, I've found the ecstasy of living within my means. Living the way I mean to live, always.