Emotions have a way of clouding reality and repressing logic. You have to learn to deal with your emotions head-on, through rational thought, in order to control them. If you allow your emotions to guide your actions too often, the results can be catastrophic. This is especially true in matters of love. When you become physically attracted to someone without giving much thought as to whether she or he represents values you hold in high esteem, it means that your intellect is on sick leave.
Physical attraction is the phenomenon that most often produces the illusion of love. Unfortunately, it usually takes a long time to realize that it’s sex alone that attracts you to another person and that there is no real love involved. Beware: All too often, two or more martinis can cause one to confuse sexual attraction with love. What I’m talking about here is a phenomenon commonly referred to as infatuation — an illusion that occurs most frequently between the ages of thirteen and thirty. Unfortunately, many people carry infatuation symptoms well into their fifties or sixties, which can be both embarrassing and costly. Infatuation does not wear well on over-the-hill types.
Infatuation can be a threat to one’s health, financial well-being, and happiness. A most memorable experience with this menacing health hazard occurred in an earlier life when Jim and I were young, single, and impetuous bankers. It was at a time when we were roaming the streets of New York, searching for wealthy investors who might be willing to listen to our hallucinations about big-money deals. We occasionally found time for a little entertainment, and at our tender age we were still able to burn the candle at both ends.
One day, Jim’s ever-watchful eye brought him in contact with a stunningly beautiful young lady of Puerto Rican descent who had infatuation stamped across her forehead. Unfortunately, it was written in Spanish, a language he didn’t speak. Ignorantly, he just assumed that the word was love. He had recently seen the stage version of West Side Story, so he was ripe for the Infatuation Trap, particularly one in which the Broadway musical came to life before his very eyes. He was the equivalent of Clark Kent, periodically darting into an alley and emerging as Superman. We would visit investors during the day, talk about big business deals, and then Jim would emerge from the meetings as Tony, straight out of West Side Story. As you can imagine, transforming the target of his infatuation into Maria was a rather easy task.
Maria… I've just met a girl named Maria
And suddenly that name will never be the same to me
Maria, I've just kissed a girl named Maria
And suddenly I've found how wonderful a sound can be…
When your emotions are in control, you’re in danger of doing things you wouldn’t even consider doing under normal circumstances. In Jim’s case, after several romantic dinners at the local diner, he managed one evening to end up on the fourth floor of an old tenement house on the Lower East Side of Manhattan — a building with no fire escape and no elevator. There he was, in a dark, tiny apartment with only one exit. I tell you, bankers were never meant to be in situations like that.
Tonight, tonight, the world is full of light
With suns and moons all over the place
Tonight, tonight the world is wild and bright
Going mad, shooting sparks into space…
Then it came — the knock at the door at 4:00 a.m., a knock that soon turned into a ferocious banging interspersed with Spanish words Jim couldn’t understand. There was, however, no doubt in his mind that the person at the door was not serenading them with “Spanish Eyes.” In a voice that would not cause anyone to mistake Jim for Rambo, he asked Maria, “Wh... Who is th... th... that?” In a cavalier tone, she answered, “My husband.” No problem, Jim thought to himself. He’ll just hold his breath until he died. That way, he’ll never have to know what he looked like when the man on the other side of the door got through rearranging his body parts.
Jim frantically searched for clothes in the dark — his, hers, the husband’s — any clothes! After partially covering his body with a variety of garments that made him look like a candidate for first prize at the annual Lower East Side Halloween Costume Contest, Maria opened the door and — yikes! — let her husband in. The moment of truth was upon him. What should he do? Jim wasn’t fast; he had no weapons; and he hardly was a master at fisticuffs, particularly on the fourth floor of a tenement house at four o’clock in the morning. And who would he be facing — the reincarnation of Pablo Escobar?
While Maria began explaining to her husband that Jim was a priest from Jersey City, Jim gave a sort of half-salute greeting as he casually edged his way toward the door. As their conversation heated up, Jim kept right on edging... and edging... and edging. When it was all over, Jim had set two track-and-field records that still stand today. One was the time for a banker descending four flights of tenement-house stairs — 3.5 seconds. The other was the time elapsed covering the distance between Avenue B and First Avenue in the snow — conditions: after midnight, with no wind at the runner’s back — 20 seconds. And, mind you, all this was accomplished while wearing only one shoe!
Finally, a bit of good luck — a taxi zipped by at that ominous hour. Jim flagged it down, jumped in, and yelled, “Hit it!” As the taxi sped out of sight toward mid-town civilization, the saga of Jim the Banker faded into the night, never to be heard from again.
The moral of the story is beware of infatuation. It can lead to dangers that The International Investor hasn’t even dreamed of, but which can permanently impair his capacity to look out for himself and his investment success.
This post is excerpted, creatively edited, and sourced from Looking Out for #1 by Robert Ringer, the lyrics of West Side Story, and the many adventures that Jim and I shared. Jim’s name was changed to protect the innocent.
The content is for general informational and entertainment purposes only and should not be construed as financial advice.