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Politicians have perfected the art of lowering expectations and "reframing" results. It's time I did the same.

(Illustration by Mark Matcho)

I shudder to think I've become the kind of person who takes behavioral cues from political candidates or, worse, their campaign directors. But recently, on the eve of my mother's visit, I heard myself spinning my own mom. "I still haven't gotten towel bars for the guest bathroom," I began, "and the refrigerator's practically empty. There are dead ivy plants out on the deck, and the kids' room . . ." My goal was to lower her expectations, and I knew I'd done my job when she sounded downright giddy that we have indoor plumbing. "Why, that's all a person really needs."

This election is about change, all right - my personal change. From now on, I'm approaching life like a politician. Instead of getting annoyed every time I hear a losing candidate claim victory because he did a little less poorly than had been predicted - "The pundits said we'd finish fourth, but we came in third!" or "We beat projections involving the demographic of 26- to 29-year-olds who don't own iPods!" - I'm going to take notes. I'll also be scribbling at the end of every fiscal quarter, soaking up stories about companies that lost money but beat analysts' expectations and consequently enjoyed a jump in stock price. That's the kind of sweet deal I want.

And who better to use the tactic on than my very self? Just the other morning, for example, before stepping on the scale after a one-month hiatus (which included both a vacation and a generous gift box of chocolates), I did some prep work. "You're looking at a 5-pound gain," I told myself. Since it was me talking, I sort of knew what I was up to, but only kind of. I sucked in my stomach and prepared for the worst. What's this? Only 3 pounds heavier? I felt slim. So slim, in fact, that I decided to shop for blue jeans.

Before I left, anticipating that the trip to the mall would take an hour so I could enjoy the sensation of being early when I arrived in the usual 40 minutes, I called Gregory M. Barron, an assistant professor in the negotiations, organizations, and markets unit at Harvard Business School, and asked why lowering expectations works so well.

People hate losing more than we like winning, he explained. Studies show we'll go to great lengths to tip the psychological balance in our favor, even if it means reframing what constitutes a win.

Ah, reframing. I've been doing that since the Reagan administration. In my playbook, $150 dropped on a jacket that was originally $250 means $100 earned, not $150 spent (a faith-based system of accounting I don't recommend for amateurs). This "loss aversion" effect turns out to be much more powerful than behavioral economists had realized. In fact, in 2002, a psychologist won the Nobel Prize in Economics for related work on prospect theory, which holds, in part, that losses loom larger than gains.

When I asked Barron how civilians could use this Nobel-level theory to gain advantage over loved ones, he provided a real-life example. His 5-year-old daughter is so fruit and vegetable-resistant that she's being kept alive by Flintstones vitamins. Almost every evening, they struggle over how many grapes she'll eat at dinner. Well trained by a father who teaches negotiation, she suggests three. He counters with seven or eight. "What I'm shooting for is five," Barron told me. The concept is called "anchoring," he explained, and it reframes the discussion. "Now, in the end, when I come down to five grapes, she's happy, because she feels she's gained something."

The key, he added, is not to go too far with your anchoring point. "It can't be so unreasonable it throws a wrench in the discussion process." Uh-oh. Maybe I shouldn't have written "Don't expect much" in the subject line of a piece I recently e-mailed to an editor.

Sensing I needed help refining my technique, I called one of the world's experts in expectations management, a plastic surgeon. Dr. Leonard Miller of Brookline revealed his secret: If a prospective patient isn't a candidate for a big improvement, he warns her in very certain language but, and here's the real trick, remains upbeat enough to keep her interested. "I don't know how much improvement we're going to get," he tells aspiring beauties, "but we are going to get improvement, and you will look better."

Working my scheme, on the way back from my jeans expedition, I called a major shareholder (my husband) and warned that operating expenses may be up. I heard him draw a breath. "But don't worry honey," I told him. "Not by too much."

Beth Teitell, a Boston-based writer, contributes regularly to the Globe Magazine. E-mail her at bteitell@gmail.com.