My pro forma life Big corporations aren’t the only ones who can manipulate the numbers BY KRIS FRIESWICK

As a full-time financial journalist, I have long been exposed to the many "strategies" that corporations use to make themselves look more attractive to the investing public than they actually are. These machinations have been very effective in the past; it’s only recently that America’s corporate watchdog, the Securities and Exchange Commission, has cracked down on some of these tricks as potentially misleading.

But although such techniques have been restricted for corporations, they are fair game for you, dear reader. You can still "strategize" to make yourself look more attractive to the various groups whom you wish to impress — like potential romantic partners, bosses, and high-school-reunion attendees.

By far, the most powerful beautifying technique I’ve seen during my time covering the titans of industry is "pro forma" reporting. For instance, say Company A has taken a $165 million loss. It reports that to the SEC, but to you, Joe Investor, it announces a "pro forma" profit, once it strips out the costs of "special, one-time" expenses it thinks shouldn’t be counted as routine costs of doing business — things like the loss on the sale of a business unit, or the costs for a big "one-time" layoff (even though it’s the fifth layoff in five years; you can see why the SEC cracked down on this stuff). Somewhere, way down at the bottom of the press release in teensy print, it might mention the $165 million loss, but the company figures you won’t read that far. Pro forma reporting is a corporation’s way of helping investors see only the good news, while downplaying (some call it hiding) the bad — and it shows that no matter what the numbers actually say, if you spin them right, you can convince people that things are fabulous.

That theory works equally well for life’s troubling little metrics. Take, for instance, the number that vexes many women: weight. I know how much I weigh. It is currently far more than I wish to weigh, but when reported pro forma, my weight is surprisingly close to perfect.

Here’s how it works. I weigh 148 pounds, according to the scale in my bathroom. Now, I am not entirely sure of the accuracy of that scale. It could be off by as much as two pounds. So I will assume, for the purposes of reporting, that the scale is running two pounds high. In addition, I like to weigh myself in the morning, before I have completely emptied my system of the large dinner I had the night before, and sometimes even the previous day’s lunch — which conservatively weigh in at another one and a half pounds. Plus, if it’s the week before that time of the month, there’s at least another two pounds. When adjusted for monthly variations, my weight, rather than the depressing 148, is the svelte and attractive 140. I’m feeling better about myself already.

Now take, for instance, that eternally problematic metric, age. Although my chronological age is 40, my pro forma age is 28. To arrive at this figure, I have deducted a) any year that I don’t remember; b) a month for every time, since I turned 30, that I have been carded; c) a year for every time, since I’ve been married, that someone asked me if I was younger than my husband; and d) a "health allowance" for all the days I’ve spent doing something that’s good for me, like biking, lifting weights, yoga, and sleeping very, very soundly.

In the interest of fairness, I have added back a couple of years to account for all the days lost to blistering hangovers, the bout with double pneumonia, and the heart-stopping near-death experiences (like chasing an intruder out of my apartment with a butcher knife, and being yanked by a kind stranger out of the path of an oncoming bus). I’ve also added some months to account for the extraordinary abuse I’ve doled out over the years to my knees, lower back, and liver.

Another figure I’ve found useful to issue only in its pro forma format is the number of men I dated before I got married. To be honest, I lost track of the actual number a long time ago. However, I can confidently state that my pro forma boyfriend number is eight. To arrive at this number, I eliminated all the men a) whose names I can’t recall; b) who never met my family; c) who never called me back; d) with whom I do not wish to be publicly affiliated; and e) who cheated on me. Not only is my pro forma boyfriend list easier to remember than the actual boyfriend roster, but it is also far more pleasant to recall.

You undoubtedly have your own list of metrics that will benefit from "pro forma" treatment. But before embarking on your new pro forma life, please heed this word of warning: don’t fall into the same trap that ensnared some corporations when they started believing their own revisionist history. Lie all you want to everyone else, but only trouble can result when you start believing your own press. Most important, never, ever report your pro forma numbers to life’s own SEC: your mother. She won’t fine you or issue a cease-and-desist order, but she can be counted on to reveal your actual weight and age, and remind you of that old boyfriend with the pierced scrotum who ended up in jail for painting graffiti on a church. What’s worse, she will wait to do so until you are surrounded by members of your investing public: potential romantic partners, bosses, or high-school-reunion attendees.

Happy pro forma 29th-birthday wishes can be sent to Kris Frieswick at k.frieswick@verizon.net