Losing my job has been a monumental event for me. But it should not have been. I view things differently, or at least I used to. My world had been divided into 2 segments: before I lost my mother and after I lost my mother. Those parts of my life are dramatically different. In the first part, I was a flux of tears for simple things, like if my hair was not perfect leaving the salon or if I had a toothache, or if my stomach hurt. But when my mom died nothing ever compared. I knew that no matter what happened that would always be the worst. I always had the attitude that if I can lose my mother and survive, I can lose anything. So you see I wasn’t at all scared like most people of losing my job. I never felt like it could not happen to me. Quite the contrary, I often wondered why it hadn’t happened to me. I lost a parent; surely a job was no more secure.
But why have I been crying this way? It’s that deep-down cry, the one that is so piercing that you scare yourself when you hear it– not like one that comes from the loss of a lover, but the one that comes from the loss of a limb or someone so dear to you that you are no longer you. This pain is not at all like the pain I feel when I’ve run too long or burned my mouth with food that’s too hot. It’s different. I’m ashamed because I’m not crying over the loss of the job per se but what that loss equates to.
My job was not perfect like most, but it afforded me a sense of status–a sense of self. It allowed me to have a routine that I now know I long for. I used to complain about having to wake up early to run before work, having to rush to the train, having to e-mail my friends during the day to see what I missed from the night before. I used to return from hurried lunches in the afternoon to realize how slow the day was going despite the fact that I’d only be a third of the way through my to-do list. I used to change into my workout gear in the bathroom at work so as not to have a reason to skip the gym. Finally, the day over, I’d head to the gym for a favorite class. Then, after the 25-minute commute back home, showered, eating my soup from Panera while watching the episode of Gossip Girl I recorded earlier in the week, I’d get to relax for a minute or two. Let’s not forget the weekend routine. Saturdays I’d wake up just slightly later because even though I’m a morning person, I wanted to revel in the freedom of the weekend. I’d spend two hours at the gym, and then go shopping. Awww, shopping–the tears are 50% from the loss of shopping. I love shopping–the freedom to buy whatever you want whenever you want–the notion that wants and needs are equal.
All these things were stripped away when I lost my job. I had to give up the pricey gym membership–no more belonging to two gyms, one niche and one practical–and no more training sessions. Gone were the weekly salon visits, manicures, massages, clothes. No more Banana Republic. No more not reading price tags. Did you know cheese was $6? I can’t afford cheese. The tears come down even more. Does everyone feel this way?
I still have a strong longing for the weekend; I’m still excited like everyone else when Friday comes. Although I’ve spent the same grueling hours looking for a job that I would have spent at my old job, the real reason that the weekend brings excitement is because for two days I’m like everyone else. No one thinks, “What is she doing at a café in the middle of the day?” I don’t have to worry about anyone judging me, or judging myself on how I choose to segment my day. I’m not thinking, “Is this run too long? I could be sending out a resume or looking for another way to market myself.”
Monday comes again and I crave a routine. I wake up at 7:45 a.m., fix my lunch for the day, pack my gym bag and head to the gym. I curse myself when I sleep in. Would you sleep in if you were going to work? Surely not, so get up already.
If I thought I was depressed this would be different. But I know I’m not. I’m just unemployed. I tried to somehow use this as an excuse for why I have not washed my clothes in months, swept the floor in weeks, or cleaned the bathroom in days. But this is not really different from how I was living before unemployment–as my friend reminded me, I’m just lazy. I want to make excuses, I want to somehow rise above what “other Americans are feeling,” but according to the articles my behavior is normal. I want to stand out in some way. I either want to be the person that found a new job in three weeks during the recession or the one that is so depressed that their friends and family have to watch them carefully.
Recently, a friend told me that if she were unemployed she would do all the things she wanted to do while she was at work. I never had a list of what I would do if I didn’t have to work. That never seemed appropriate. I never imagined not working so now even during my off time, when I’m not looking for work, I am obsessing about looking for work. I know everything there is to know about unemployment. It’s my job to know these things. I can quote statistics about unemployment rates, labor rates, etc. without blinking, and I don’t know what I would be doing if I wasn’t doing that. Some people have dreams of traveling, writing, learning a new language, or going back to school. To me those are the things you do when you’re employed. I can’t think of traveling, lunching, or leisurely writing when I’m consumed with the fear of not having a job.
I’ve become distant lately in my friendships. Most people don’t notice, but I notice. On any given day I only want to talk to the same three people. Those are the only people I will always answer the phone for, which I know is not fair to my other friends, but those are the only people I want to hear from sometimes. I don’t want to be asked how the search is going, or how am I doing–I’m unemployed, that’s how I’m doing. It’s so unfair to them, the others. Because if they didn’t call I would then consider them bad friends–a catch-22.
I make a conscious effort to know what day of the week it is, so as not to seem aloof–to reaffirm that days mean the same to me as they do to you, and I’m normal. Today is Monday, May 17, 2010. It’s 11:09 p.m. and I’m still unemployed. I never knew what having a job meant for me as a person until now. But I guess some things you never know until you lose the very thing you hold so dear.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Monday, November 16, 2009
Window Shopping
I’m starting to get a little more adjusted to my new life–one that involves looking at price tags, saying no to dinners at Smith and Wollensky, deleting discount offer e-mails from Banana Republic, and learning to “shop” in my own closet.
My main objective these last few weeks was not to get caught in my old habits. In addition to applying for a part-time job and only getting one manicure in two weeks, I also decided to try to apply and understand more of the suggestions friends have given me for my new bout with poverty. My first objective was to research a friend’s suggestion I received last week: “In order to save money, it would be wise if you just went ‘window shopping’.” At the time, I wasn’t really sure what that meant. After considering it for a bit, I figured that what she meant was that I shouldn’t deny myself a trip or two to certain shops, but that I should just make a game of it, and not actually buy anything. I guess I had no clue that this was an option. Why would you just not buy the things you wanted? I mean, why are you in the store if you’re not buying anything. I didn’t get it. But I was willing to try.
One Saturday, I went to a few stores to see exactly what it’s like to enter a store, look at items you want to purchase, and not be able to do so. I started at Bloomingdale’s. I guess I should admit that I actually never intended to resist buying something if I really needed it. I first stopped at the YSL counter, because if I was going to be in Bloomie’s I might as well pick up some lip gloss. I told myself, “This is not an indulgence, everyone wears lip gloss.” From there I found myself at the watch counter. Now, I used to wear watches all the time, but in the past few years I have not worn or bought any new watches. This summer I did see this fabulous white Marc Jacobs watch (super cute–in the shape of a daisy–inspired by his perfume, “Daisy,” I suppose), but I never purchased it. Since getting a watch was neither in my budget nor in my plans, this would be a good time to test my abilities as a window shopper. I tried on a few watches but none really tickled my fancy. I was doing well.
Next to shoes. I was sure the shoe department would offer some temptation, and there they were, staring at me–a black pair of Rebecca Taylor Ruffle High Heel Mary Jane Pumps. I politely asked the sales assistant to bring out the shoes for me.
“Sure, one second,” she responded.
As I waited, I noticed that my heart rate was slightly elevated and my palms were almost sweaty. I’m a sucker for a pair of Mary Janes and these had ruffles. I love ruffles! Ruffles, Ruffles, Ruffles! In fact, the word “ruffle” is on my 100 Favorite Words of All Time list. It’s nestled between “lovely” and “girth” (wink).
After the sales assistant returned with the shoes, I slid the left one on first, since my left foot is bigger than my right. It fit perfectly. I added the right shoe and it was almost as though they conformed to my feet. They made me feel really young and girly but the high heel made me feel sexy. I started walking around the store forgetting about my own shoes. As I pranced around, checking out in the mirror how the height of the heel appeared to lift my butt a little, I realized how tall and pretty I felt with the shoes. The sales associate looked over at me, smiling–probably knowing that she’d made a good choice in helping me because there was no way I wasn’t going home with these shoes.
“Will you take them?” she asked.
“Yes.”
I removed the shoes and placed them perfectly back in the box. I was already thinking of all the places I was going to wear them. They would go perfectly with my new leather elbow gloves and hot pink wool coat with ¾ inch sleeves that I didn’t own just yet (but I will once I get a part-time job).
Standing at the register while waiting for the woman in front of me to make her signature in the electronic reader that never seems to work, I heard another sales associate ask a different customer if she needed any help. She responded,
“No, I’m just window shopping.”
Shit . . . Window shopping . . . That’s what you’re supposed to be doing.
My attention cut back to the sale in front of me: “Your total is . . .”
As she gave the price I kept hearing the words of the other customer, “No, I’m just window shopping.” Yes, but now I can’t turn back; I’m here, she’s already rung them up. I have to buy them. Then, all of a sudden, thoughts of a time before when I was much younger came crashing in. I remembered how, when going to the store with my aunt, no matter where we were, she would approach the checkout counter with more items than she could afford. She would do this song-and-dance about how she could not decide what she really wanted before she reached the counter and how she needed the sales associate’s help. She always placed her favorite items first and after every third item she would ask for the total. Once she was within a certain amount she would allow the sales associate to pick the final item she would purchase. I’m sure she could see the embarrassment in my face, but she would assure me that the sales associate loved this charade–she said it broke up the monotony of his or her day. I never bought this story, though, since I knew that after we left, the sales associate would still have to put back the twenty or so items that we didn’t buy.
I took my bag from the smiling sales associate who was more than happy to walk around the counter to hand me the bag. I said “Thanks,” though I left feeling a bit defeated. As soon I got home I tried on the shoes. Wow, they are so gorgeous. But they are not in my budget. I can’t afford them. They have to go back.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m the queen of returns, but I’ve never returned something I loved. So when Sunday morning arrived, I was dreading the day; The Day of the Return. I got up and put on every outfit I owned that looked cute with my shoes. I tried on dresses, skirts, pants, even a bikini; outfits with colored tights, patterned tights, and bare legs. The shoes were perfect with all of them.
“I can’t do it. I can’t take them back,” I told a friend.
“But you have to. You need to take control of this,” she responded.
“I know... but I love them. People have a right to love things, and it’s all Lauren’s fault–I knew nothing about this damn window shopping bullshit until she brought it up! If it wasn’t for her I would only have stopped in Bloomie’s to get my lip gloss and would have been on my merry way. Let’s see, I could not buy groceries all month and use my normal monthly allowance to keep the shoes. Yes, that’s what I will do. Celebrities starve themselves all the time. Plus, I can eat on Sundays at my friend’s house, and then during the week, I could be like the vultures at work and prey on after-lunch-meeting leftovers, or better yet, I could only schedule lunch meetings this week and therefore be sure to have food! This could work. Plus, I have some cans of soup, rice, and beans. I just read a book where an entire family survived off of maggot-infested canned ham, butter, and grapes, and all the children grew up to be productive citizens. Plus, this whole poverty plan is about deprivation, right?”
My friend waited for me to finish all my ludicrous scenarios and finally said, “You’re taking them back.”
A lesson to all: there is no such thing as fucking window shopping.
My main objective these last few weeks was not to get caught in my old habits. In addition to applying for a part-time job and only getting one manicure in two weeks, I also decided to try to apply and understand more of the suggestions friends have given me for my new bout with poverty. My first objective was to research a friend’s suggestion I received last week: “In order to save money, it would be wise if you just went ‘window shopping’.” At the time, I wasn’t really sure what that meant. After considering it for a bit, I figured that what she meant was that I shouldn’t deny myself a trip or two to certain shops, but that I should just make a game of it, and not actually buy anything. I guess I had no clue that this was an option. Why would you just not buy the things you wanted? I mean, why are you in the store if you’re not buying anything. I didn’t get it. But I was willing to try.
One Saturday, I went to a few stores to see exactly what it’s like to enter a store, look at items you want to purchase, and not be able to do so. I started at Bloomingdale’s. I guess I should admit that I actually never intended to resist buying something if I really needed it. I first stopped at the YSL counter, because if I was going to be in Bloomie’s I might as well pick up some lip gloss. I told myself, “This is not an indulgence, everyone wears lip gloss.” From there I found myself at the watch counter. Now, I used to wear watches all the time, but in the past few years I have not worn or bought any new watches. This summer I did see this fabulous white Marc Jacobs watch (super cute–in the shape of a daisy–inspired by his perfume, “Daisy,” I suppose), but I never purchased it. Since getting a watch was neither in my budget nor in my plans, this would be a good time to test my abilities as a window shopper. I tried on a few watches but none really tickled my fancy. I was doing well.
Next to shoes. I was sure the shoe department would offer some temptation, and there they were, staring at me–a black pair of Rebecca Taylor Ruffle High Heel Mary Jane Pumps. I politely asked the sales assistant to bring out the shoes for me.
“Sure, one second,” she responded.
As I waited, I noticed that my heart rate was slightly elevated and my palms were almost sweaty. I’m a sucker for a pair of Mary Janes and these had ruffles. I love ruffles! Ruffles, Ruffles, Ruffles! In fact, the word “ruffle” is on my 100 Favorite Words of All Time list. It’s nestled between “lovely” and “girth” (wink).
After the sales assistant returned with the shoes, I slid the left one on first, since my left foot is bigger than my right. It fit perfectly. I added the right shoe and it was almost as though they conformed to my feet. They made me feel really young and girly but the high heel made me feel sexy. I started walking around the store forgetting about my own shoes. As I pranced around, checking out in the mirror how the height of the heel appeared to lift my butt a little, I realized how tall and pretty I felt with the shoes. The sales associate looked over at me, smiling–probably knowing that she’d made a good choice in helping me because there was no way I wasn’t going home with these shoes.
“Will you take them?” she asked.
“Yes.”
I removed the shoes and placed them perfectly back in the box. I was already thinking of all the places I was going to wear them. They would go perfectly with my new leather elbow gloves and hot pink wool coat with ¾ inch sleeves that I didn’t own just yet (but I will once I get a part-time job).
Standing at the register while waiting for the woman in front of me to make her signature in the electronic reader that never seems to work, I heard another sales associate ask a different customer if she needed any help. She responded,
“No, I’m just window shopping.”
Shit . . . Window shopping . . . That’s what you’re supposed to be doing.
My attention cut back to the sale in front of me: “Your total is . . .”
As she gave the price I kept hearing the words of the other customer, “No, I’m just window shopping.” Yes, but now I can’t turn back; I’m here, she’s already rung them up. I have to buy them. Then, all of a sudden, thoughts of a time before when I was much younger came crashing in. I remembered how, when going to the store with my aunt, no matter where we were, she would approach the checkout counter with more items than she could afford. She would do this song-and-dance about how she could not decide what she really wanted before she reached the counter and how she needed the sales associate’s help. She always placed her favorite items first and after every third item she would ask for the total. Once she was within a certain amount she would allow the sales associate to pick the final item she would purchase. I’m sure she could see the embarrassment in my face, but she would assure me that the sales associate loved this charade–she said it broke up the monotony of his or her day. I never bought this story, though, since I knew that after we left, the sales associate would still have to put back the twenty or so items that we didn’t buy.
I took my bag from the smiling sales associate who was more than happy to walk around the counter to hand me the bag. I said “Thanks,” though I left feeling a bit defeated. As soon I got home I tried on the shoes. Wow, they are so gorgeous. But they are not in my budget. I can’t afford them. They have to go back.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m the queen of returns, but I’ve never returned something I loved. So when Sunday morning arrived, I was dreading the day; The Day of the Return. I got up and put on every outfit I owned that looked cute with my shoes. I tried on dresses, skirts, pants, even a bikini; outfits with colored tights, patterned tights, and bare legs. The shoes were perfect with all of them.
“I can’t do it. I can’t take them back,” I told a friend.
“But you have to. You need to take control of this,” she responded.
“I know... but I love them. People have a right to love things, and it’s all Lauren’s fault–I knew nothing about this damn window shopping bullshit until she brought it up! If it wasn’t for her I would only have stopped in Bloomie’s to get my lip gloss and would have been on my merry way. Let’s see, I could not buy groceries all month and use my normal monthly allowance to keep the shoes. Yes, that’s what I will do. Celebrities starve themselves all the time. Plus, I can eat on Sundays at my friend’s house, and then during the week, I could be like the vultures at work and prey on after-lunch-meeting leftovers, or better yet, I could only schedule lunch meetings this week and therefore be sure to have food! This could work. Plus, I have some cans of soup, rice, and beans. I just read a book where an entire family survived off of maggot-infested canned ham, butter, and grapes, and all the children grew up to be productive citizens. Plus, this whole poverty plan is about deprivation, right?”
My friend waited for me to finish all my ludicrous scenarios and finally said, “You’re taking them back.”
A lesson to all: there is no such thing as fucking window shopping.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Rebound girl
I want to be the rebound girl; the one he chooses; the one who benefits from everything the woman before me has done: the constant nights of arguing, her cheating, lying, reckless dealing with his heart. I want that man; the one she convinced to get braces, to let her take him shopping, to layer his sweaters with Thomas Pink shirts, to feel it was okay to wear purple shirts and pink ties; the one she introduced to the fit of designer jeans, Cole Haan shoes, sport coats, linen pants, boat shoes, sunglasses, leather flip flops, and white watches; the one she taught how to pick a girly movie, sit through the ballet without fidgeting, plan a dinner party, and give great oral. Then she left, most likely because she thought he was too boring, too shy–she wanted more out of life–someone less sullen, someone funnier. “I want someone who makes me laugh,” she probably told him.
I want a man who knows what pains feels like; one who wakes in the morning thinking of the same woman he spent all night crying over. One who has contemplated not going to work soon after the breakup because he felt weak. I want someone whose showers in the morning were filled with tears and constant thoughts of her face; who couldn’t stop thinking of what she said (probably something like, “I love you, but I’m not in love with you.”); the one whose friends check up on because he is taking it a bit too hard. I want someone who wanted someone that didn’t want them. I want it to have taken him a few days before he was able to eat again or for him to have eaten everything in sight just to suppress the thoughts of life without her. I want him to have seen beautiful women but to not have looked at them sexually during the first few months after the breakup. Maybe his friends tried to hook him up during that time, but he will have refused because he wouldn’t have been over her.
Six months will have passed and he will still feel a little pain when he hears her favorite song or sees her friends but he will be much better. He will use the gym and pick up games of basketball as his therapy. I want someone who, after seven months of reflection, goes on a few dates and they go well. He’ll sleep with a few women but there will be no real connection.
Almost a year would have passed and then I want to meet him. I’ll say all the right things. I won’t call too much, and I’ll seem just the right amount of uninterested. He’ll hesitate at first, but he’ll know he likes me. He’ll enjoy our conversations, he’ll find me attractive, and he’ll want to spend more time with me. I’ll oblige but only give him a little bit of me. He’ll press for more. I’ll budge just enough. I’ll make him feel validated, loved, and appreciated. I’ll laugh at his jokes, appreciate his sarcasm, hold his hand, kiss him passionately in public, and sing to him even though I don’t have the voice–all the things she would never have done. I’ll be the opposite of her and just what he wants. He’ll say that his life would not have been the same without me and that he is falling in love.
Rebound girl.
I want a man who knows what pains feels like; one who wakes in the morning thinking of the same woman he spent all night crying over. One who has contemplated not going to work soon after the breakup because he felt weak. I want someone whose showers in the morning were filled with tears and constant thoughts of her face; who couldn’t stop thinking of what she said (probably something like, “I love you, but I’m not in love with you.”); the one whose friends check up on because he is taking it a bit too hard. I want someone who wanted someone that didn’t want them. I want it to have taken him a few days before he was able to eat again or for him to have eaten everything in sight just to suppress the thoughts of life without her. I want him to have seen beautiful women but to not have looked at them sexually during the first few months after the breakup. Maybe his friends tried to hook him up during that time, but he will have refused because he wouldn’t have been over her.
Six months will have passed and he will still feel a little pain when he hears her favorite song or sees her friends but he will be much better. He will use the gym and pick up games of basketball as his therapy. I want someone who, after seven months of reflection, goes on a few dates and they go well. He’ll sleep with a few women but there will be no real connection.
Almost a year would have passed and then I want to meet him. I’ll say all the right things. I won’t call too much, and I’ll seem just the right amount of uninterested. He’ll hesitate at first, but he’ll know he likes me. He’ll enjoy our conversations, he’ll find me attractive, and he’ll want to spend more time with me. I’ll oblige but only give him a little bit of me. He’ll press for more. I’ll budge just enough. I’ll make him feel validated, loved, and appreciated. I’ll laugh at his jokes, appreciate his sarcasm, hold his hand, kiss him passionately in public, and sing to him even though I don’t have the voice–all the things she would never have done. I’ll be the opposite of her and just what he wants. He’ll say that his life would not have been the same without me and that he is falling in love.
Rebound girl.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Wiser but Weaker
So I’m making drastic changes to cut back on what I find to be necessities but to most are wants and luxuries in order to make it out of the recession alive. I keep reading articles and journals about how the worst is over but for me it seems like it is just beginning. Increased assessments (fucking vertical living), lurking credit card debts, interest rates accruing from hefty student loans, and a greater chance of being unemployed are all within arm’s reach. As a result, I’m taking a proactive approach to cutting cost in what I like to call “living on the heels of poverty.”
Naturally I decided to see what this world actually looks like. What does it mean to live within budgets, monitoring accounts, and saying “no”? I enlisted some help from a wide range of people, and here are the suggestions I received:
1. Bring your own lunch and don’t eat out.
Done! I do that already. I actually would prefer to bring my own lunch and cook in the evenings. I do however splurge one day on the weekends with a nice dinner. Am I really willing to change that?
2. Stop shopping.
Okay, so I am guilty of this. But I will say that earlier this year I noticed that I was spending the equivalent to what some pay on a mortgage for a small home in the burb, and I have since cut that down to under $200 a month ( how ‘bout a round of applause?)
3. Stop buying books.
As a member of a book club this was hard, but I decided to venture out to what is known as the library. I will admit I’m still working on the ins and out of this lending regime–you know, them not having the books I need or taking forever to find the book I’m looking for–but mostly it’s the smell I can’t deal with–that stale smell of the books when I open them and the knowledge that people who don’t wash their hands or bodies for that matter are fumbling through the same books I am placing in my totes. But I’m working on it.
4. Sell a bag or two.
Not an option. No way, not gonna do it. If I’m going to pay off this credit card I’ll be damned if I can’t keep the purse that got me into debt in the first place.
5. Sell clothes to consignment shops.
Though I have yet to do this, I like the concept–I like the idea of getting cash for clothes, plus it might make it easier to get new clothes. Oops, that’s against #2.
6. No more weekly hair salon visits.
Okay, okay, okay, so yes I get my hair washed and blow dried every week, but really there is a reason. See, I work out a lot and my hair is ruined–RUINED, I tell you–so going to the salon weekly is almost necessary. Maybe I’ll try to go every other week. Someone suggested once a month, but I’m not there yet. (I would also like to add that that person should not be giving hair advice.)
7. Give up manicures.
Do you know someone had the audacity to suggest that I don’t need weekly manicures? In the words of Rachael Zoe, “I die.” I mean, really, who doesn’t get weekly manicures? I’m looking down at my hands as I type and I see the lovely dark polish floating over the keys–it’s giving me so much joy. I did promise that I would try to make it last two weeks which is super hard for dark polish, but it’s not like I do any manual labor.
8. Forget about getting a cleaning lady.
Okay, so no one actually suggested this, but I have a feeling that it might be because no one knows I was considering it. I should probably get rid of those price quotes I received. . .
9. Give up your pricey gym membership.
Hell no! I love my gym. I love the flat screen TV’s on the machines, the proximity of it to my job, the trainers, the classes, the pool (I'm allergic to chlorine), the sauna (I’ve never used it), the two full basketball courts (don’t even ask), the spa, the people who couldn’t care less about what I have on and who never give me dirty looks as I’m singing my anthem, “Gives You Hell,” while climbing on the stair master. In addition, being any bigger is far worst than being poorer.
10. Disconnect your home phone.
“You know you’re the only person our age that has a home phone,” said my friend. Really? I hate talking on my cell phone. It’s so awkward; cell phones were not made for extended conversations. They were built for convenience and to put into small clutches and men’s pants pockets, not for laying in bed dishing on the latest reality show. But I can do without it.
11. Cancel your home Internet service.
A friend told me “You know, I just make a list of all the things I need to research and do it while at work or at the library.” I nodded my head as if it made sense, but I was really thinking “How do you ever watch porn?”
12. Get a part-time job.
Now this is a novel concept. I love the idea of a part-time job. I could be the ultimate working woman– the one who will do anything to prove she is a productive citizen. I could work long days at my “real” job, then put in long nights at my part time. I could bring Lean Cuisine for lunch and have soup for dinner. I wonder how much weight I would lose? Yes, this is something to consider.
13. Get rid of your cable service.
Really, I mean what is life without cable? I might as well not live.
So it’s been one week since I’ve began my poverty plan. I really thought I was someone who could struggle–who could really get dirty when times got tough; the one who would roll up her sleeves and take on three extra jobs to make ends meet. I saw myself as someone who could eat Ramen noodles every day if that meant I was saving a buck; someone capable of wearing the same pants every day if that meant paying my credit card bills; the one whose friends would say “You know, you’ve been working really hard–you look sickly.” I want to be that person, but I’m not her. I’m the person who, since beginning this plan has bought a book from the bookstore because I got annoyed with the library, and purchased a $6 magazine from the supermarket so I could have reading material for the gym. I’ve eaten a bagel at Panera twice even though I have bagels at home, ordered a $15 martini and didn’t drink it because I forgot I don’t really like the taste so much, got a manicure on Saturday and a polish change on Thursday because I wanted a new color, and bought vitamin water from the gym at $2.29 a bottle because I’m too lazy to go to the store and get it in bulk. My brown bag lunches consist of sandwiches made with Cajun turkey breast and Swiss cheese from the deli. I’m the person who craves blackened chicken salad from Whole Foods that’s $11.99 a pound and who takes a cab to go get it; the person who buys $4.99 strawberries because they are out of season but I want strawberries; the one who yearns for lobster mashed potatoes, who doesn’t drink tap water, who loves the $2.69 tea from Corner Bakery, who spends $13 on lotion because some celebrity said I would like it, who needs $60 Bobbi Brown face oil during the winter, who wears $6.99 lip balm, uses $26 L’occitane hand cream, who adores $5 berry chill and who spent her last $3.50 on life saver fruit tarts. I’ve started thinking about how some people are made to endure certain things–life gives them lemons and they make lemonade. They struggle their entire childhoods only to later become doctors or fantastic writers. That’s not me. I blame it on my mother who never let me see her struggle in any way, who never let me go without. Then there was my grandmother and all her fancy jewelry and furs, and my grandfather who obliged all her desires. It’s no wonder I’m not cut out to be poor.
Naturally I decided to see what this world actually looks like. What does it mean to live within budgets, monitoring accounts, and saying “no”? I enlisted some help from a wide range of people, and here are the suggestions I received:
1. Bring your own lunch and don’t eat out.
Done! I do that already. I actually would prefer to bring my own lunch and cook in the evenings. I do however splurge one day on the weekends with a nice dinner. Am I really willing to change that?
2. Stop shopping.
Okay, so I am guilty of this. But I will say that earlier this year I noticed that I was spending the equivalent to what some pay on a mortgage for a small home in the burb, and I have since cut that down to under $200 a month ( how ‘bout a round of applause?)
3. Stop buying books.
As a member of a book club this was hard, but I decided to venture out to what is known as the library. I will admit I’m still working on the ins and out of this lending regime–you know, them not having the books I need or taking forever to find the book I’m looking for–but mostly it’s the smell I can’t deal with–that stale smell of the books when I open them and the knowledge that people who don’t wash their hands or bodies for that matter are fumbling through the same books I am placing in my totes. But I’m working on it.
4. Sell a bag or two.
Not an option. No way, not gonna do it. If I’m going to pay off this credit card I’ll be damned if I can’t keep the purse that got me into debt in the first place.
5. Sell clothes to consignment shops.
Though I have yet to do this, I like the concept–I like the idea of getting cash for clothes, plus it might make it easier to get new clothes. Oops, that’s against #2.
6. No more weekly hair salon visits.
Okay, okay, okay, so yes I get my hair washed and blow dried every week, but really there is a reason. See, I work out a lot and my hair is ruined–RUINED, I tell you–so going to the salon weekly is almost necessary. Maybe I’ll try to go every other week. Someone suggested once a month, but I’m not there yet. (I would also like to add that that person should not be giving hair advice.)
7. Give up manicures.
Do you know someone had the audacity to suggest that I don’t need weekly manicures? In the words of Rachael Zoe, “I die.” I mean, really, who doesn’t get weekly manicures? I’m looking down at my hands as I type and I see the lovely dark polish floating over the keys–it’s giving me so much joy. I did promise that I would try to make it last two weeks which is super hard for dark polish, but it’s not like I do any manual labor.
8. Forget about getting a cleaning lady.
Okay, so no one actually suggested this, but I have a feeling that it might be because no one knows I was considering it. I should probably get rid of those price quotes I received. . .
9. Give up your pricey gym membership.
Hell no! I love my gym. I love the flat screen TV’s on the machines, the proximity of it to my job, the trainers, the classes, the pool (I'm allergic to chlorine), the sauna (I’ve never used it), the two full basketball courts (don’t even ask), the spa, the people who couldn’t care less about what I have on and who never give me dirty looks as I’m singing my anthem, “Gives You Hell,” while climbing on the stair master. In addition, being any bigger is far worst than being poorer.
10. Disconnect your home phone.
“You know you’re the only person our age that has a home phone,” said my friend. Really? I hate talking on my cell phone. It’s so awkward; cell phones were not made for extended conversations. They were built for convenience and to put into small clutches and men’s pants pockets, not for laying in bed dishing on the latest reality show. But I can do without it.
11. Cancel your home Internet service.
A friend told me “You know, I just make a list of all the things I need to research and do it while at work or at the library.” I nodded my head as if it made sense, but I was really thinking “How do you ever watch porn?”
12. Get a part-time job.
Now this is a novel concept. I love the idea of a part-time job. I could be the ultimate working woman– the one who will do anything to prove she is a productive citizen. I could work long days at my “real” job, then put in long nights at my part time. I could bring Lean Cuisine for lunch and have soup for dinner. I wonder how much weight I would lose? Yes, this is something to consider.
13. Get rid of your cable service.
Really, I mean what is life without cable? I might as well not live.
So it’s been one week since I’ve began my poverty plan. I really thought I was someone who could struggle–who could really get dirty when times got tough; the one who would roll up her sleeves and take on three extra jobs to make ends meet. I saw myself as someone who could eat Ramen noodles every day if that meant I was saving a buck; someone capable of wearing the same pants every day if that meant paying my credit card bills; the one whose friends would say “You know, you’ve been working really hard–you look sickly.” I want to be that person, but I’m not her. I’m the person who, since beginning this plan has bought a book from the bookstore because I got annoyed with the library, and purchased a $6 magazine from the supermarket so I could have reading material for the gym. I’ve eaten a bagel at Panera twice even though I have bagels at home, ordered a $15 martini and didn’t drink it because I forgot I don’t really like the taste so much, got a manicure on Saturday and a polish change on Thursday because I wanted a new color, and bought vitamin water from the gym at $2.29 a bottle because I’m too lazy to go to the store and get it in bulk. My brown bag lunches consist of sandwiches made with Cajun turkey breast and Swiss cheese from the deli. I’m the person who craves blackened chicken salad from Whole Foods that’s $11.99 a pound and who takes a cab to go get it; the person who buys $4.99 strawberries because they are out of season but I want strawberries; the one who yearns for lobster mashed potatoes, who doesn’t drink tap water, who loves the $2.69 tea from Corner Bakery, who spends $13 on lotion because some celebrity said I would like it, who needs $60 Bobbi Brown face oil during the winter, who wears $6.99 lip balm, uses $26 L’occitane hand cream, who adores $5 berry chill and who spent her last $3.50 on life saver fruit tarts. I’ve started thinking about how some people are made to endure certain things–life gives them lemons and they make lemonade. They struggle their entire childhoods only to later become doctors or fantastic writers. That’s not me. I blame it on my mother who never let me see her struggle in any way, who never let me go without. Then there was my grandmother and all her fancy jewelry and furs, and my grandfather who obliged all her desires. It’s no wonder I’m not cut out to be poor.
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