It Ain't What They're Getting. It's What They Think They're Getting.
Years ago, my friend Mickey did some work with Martha Stewart. One day he told me a story I've never forgotten.
One of Martha's cookbooks featured a beautiful raspberry coulis. If you've ever seen one, you know the look. A glossy ribbon of ruby-red sauce drizzled across a slice of chocolate cake or a delicate pavlova. Elegant. Sophisticated. The sort of thing that makes dinner guests think, "Well, I certainly couldn't make that."
The cookbook recipe certainly reinforced the illusion.
You begin with three quarts of the finest raspberries from your garden. You mash them with a special tool. You strain them through layers of cheesecloth to remove every tiny seed. Then you simmer them with sugar. Stir. Reduce. Cool. Strain again. Twelve meticulous steps later, you've earned your raspberry coulis.
Mickey smiled.
"And you know what?" he said. "It's all bullshit."
Then he gave me Martha's real raspberry coulis recipe.
Buy a jar of seedless Smucker's raspberry jam.
Dump it into a saucepan.
Fill the empty jar halfway with water and pour that in.
Warm it over low heat until everything melts together.
Let it cool.
Congratulations. You've got Martha Stewart's famous raspberry coulis.
I've laughed about that story for years, but it taught me something far bigger than cooking.
It ain't what people are getting. It's what they think they're getting.
Nobody was raving about the sauce because of its ingredients. They were raving because of the story. They imagined baskets of hand-picked raspberries, linen aprons, copper pots, and a patient afternoon in the kitchen. The experience became richer because their imagination filled in all the blanks.
Stories change value.
Which brings me to one of my favorite questions.
"What do you do?"
Most people answer with the most forgettable sentence imaginable.
"I'm self-employed."
"I work in marketing."
"I'm retired."
Those answers are technically true.
They're also dead on arrival.
You're being handed an invitation to tell someone who you are, and instead you read them your tax return.
Try something different.
Tell them you're working on waking up without guilt.
Tell them you're learning witchcraft.
Tell them you're watching every Academy Award-winning film in chronological order.
Tell them you've decided to become the best pie baker in your county.
Every one of those answers opens a door instead of closing a conversation.
I'm lucky.
When someone asks what I do, I get to tell them I publish a men's nudist magazine and organize clothing-optional trips all over the world. I get to tell them I've somehow built a community of naked men scattered across the planet.
Sure, I could simply say, "I'm self-employed," or "I publish a magazine."
Both statements are accurate.
Only one is memorable.
Life gets more interesting when you stop giving people the shortest possible version of yourself.
So the next time someone asks what you've been up to, have a little fun.
Tell them you recently posed nude for a magazine.
Then pause.
Whether they believe you or not almost doesn't matter.
Because they'll remember you.
And that's the whole point.