if wishes were fishes...
Why, I'd have a whole tank!
Wish lists are common things in our Western society; from letters to Santa, to Amazon wish lists, to wedding registries, right down to the little groups of wants we keep hidden in the backs of our minds (or well to the front, depending on the kind of person you are), we are a culture well-versed in wishing and wanting.
How many times have you been asked what you'd do with a million dollars? Or a billion dollars? Have you ever told someone how you'd spend your fortune if you were someone like Oprah or Microsoft Bill?
Have you thought about what you might do if you had an extra hundred bucks? A thousand? Maybe even ten?
When I was seriously broke earlier this year -- and when I say seriously, I mean that I fought every month to meet my basic costs -- I would sit and make lists in my head.
I'd think of all the things I'd invest in if I ever had disposable income. I'd think about all the stuff I had that was falling apart (computer, shoes, jeans) and the shiny new things I'd replace them with. I'd think about all the stuff that I didn't need, but that I'd love to have: an iPod; a pair of tall black leather boots; a new watch to replace the three dead ones that were lying on my dresser; and perhaps a lovely black wool peacoat in the most classic style.
I wouldn't even bother fantasizing about houses and cars; I still have student loans and a life to lead in one of the most expensive places to live in Canada. Neither of those things would be showing up anytime soon, unless I won the proverbial lottery. I was pretty happy just to consider a fresh dose of the semi-essentials.
And for a moment, my list-making would be fun, but then the guilt would come flooding in. Who was I to want such unnecessary things, given the reality that I was blessed enough to have a roof over my head and food in my belly? It felt unthankful in the light of what so many other people were lacking. How could I sit around and want when I wasn't really, well... in want.
Then I really got low on cash -- low enough that I didn't know where next month's rent was going to come from. Low enough that I was eating a lot of rice and learning to enjoy really cheap tea instead of juice or coffee. My little lists became beacons of of a light beyond the semi-despair I was in. I still felt the guilt for my wishing -- I wasn't out on the streets yet and I knew my friends would keep my head above water -- but I'd allow myself more mental indulgences the worse my situation became.
And right when it seemed like nothing was going to work out, I was offered the job I work at now. It was like manna from heaven and Ed McMahon at my door with the giant cheque -- all at once! I wasn't going to be making millions of dollars, but I could certainly meet all my needs and more. That wasn't something I'd experienced since I'd been out on my own. I mean, I worked non-profit and freelance, for land's sakes! I was used to scraping by.
My idea of opulence at that point -- even with the lists in the back of my head -- was being able to buy a coffee when I wanted one, shoes when I needed them, and maybe the occasional silly pair of earrings (see above!)
So.
With some careful financial arranging, I started checking things off my list. The acquisition of a new computer was hastened by a tragic incident with my old laptop and a glass of tomato juice. Fortunately, I was able to work it out with some funds I'd had set aside at my old job. And -- in a fit of rampant, fantastical consumerism -- I got myself an iPod Mini. I'd been babbling about getting one forever, and I set money aside for three months or so to make it happen.
It was so exciting to have fresh things! I hadn't ever had a brand new computer of my own; castoffs and second-handers were my experience prior to the arrival of my glossy white techno-pal. The mp3 player was absolute indulgence, but I gave it to myself as a reward for working hard and getting through my rough patches in the spring.
One of the most fun parts of making a regular salary was being able to do a little now and then for my friends: a bouquet of flowers here, a little trinket there, a giant muffin at the coffee shop, or even a dinner out.
The most responsible thing I managed to do was start throwing money at my school debt in greater amounts. That was satisfying... after so many years of squeezing blood from a stone to make the minimum payments, I was able to watch the numbers owed fade a little more quickly than they ever had before.
It was all pretty delirious, to be honest. I even stopped making those dumb little lists in my head because I felt like I had everything I could possibly want or need already!
Then, one night, I had a dream that I lost my home and everything I owned in a fire. Everyone has disaster dreams; I'd had them before. Usually, you wake up, you shake it off, you say a prayer of thanks if you're smart, and then you go back to sleep.
But I kept having those dreams -- consciously, I knew it was because of the way I'd immersed myself in worrying about the aftermath of Katrina and Rita, and the horrifying impact the storms had had on thousands of people. It was purely an accident of geography that I wasn't in the same situation as all those people. And why did I live here? Why did I have things so many others didn't have? Was I worthy? Shouldn't it be taken away if I was reckless with it?
The idea of loss stuck with me into the next day, week... month. I started wondering what I'd do if I lost my job. I started thinking about what I should start acquiring, just in case my luck ran out. I talked to my friend who lost so much in Katrina about how he was picking up the pieces, and I thought about how quickly everything in my life could change for the worse, too. I could be destitute in the blink of an eye.
I also began to feel renewed guilt about what I'd bought over the last few months. Had I needed a new scarf to wrap around my shoulders at the wedding? Could I have found a cheaper computer? Should I have bought a coffee that morning? How much money had I spent on random flowers and flip flops and magazines? It swirled around in my head all the time. Not only could I easily lose all I had, but I'd squandered so much of what I'd received, anyhow.
It made me sick to the pit of my stomach. I was taking all my financial peace and overwriting it with personal doomsday warnings.
When I would talk to my friends about it, they'd shake their heads at me. "You worked for that money, " they'd say. "You just have to enjoy it, Meg. Just enjoy it." And I wanted to -- I couldn't figure out where all my fear and guilt was coming from. I wanted to go back in my blog and delete every material reference I'd ever made.
I finally had the things I wanted, and I'd found something new to freak out about. It was a bit over the top, to say the least.
Finally, I saw a man on television from Mississippi talking about losing his home in the late August storms that battered the Gulf Coast. He said, looking wearily into the camera, that he wished he'd done two things -- that there were a couple steps he'd have taken, had he known what was coming.
First, he'd have taken the time to enjoy what he'd had, from his family and his friends to his home and his hobbies. He'd barely used the barbeque in his back yard all summer. He'd not taken his kids out on their little motorboat all year long. He hadn't even finished painting the bathroom, and it was the one thing his wife had really wanted him to do. Then he started to cry.
"It would still be gone, even if I'd painted the damn thing. But why didn't I do it? It was such a stupid little small thing. I always thought the paint was so expensive -- she wanted some fancy kind. But when I think about how much money I wasted on stupid stuff and not on doing the one thing my wife asked? Dammit. And now? Now I can't paint anything for her." Then he looked even more stricken.
"And why am I worrying about paint? I should just be happy I still have my family. My mind won't stop spinning."
I just sat there weeping with him, thinking about how confused my financial priorities had become and, at the same time, how little I was allowing myself to appreciate the things I'd worked my ass off to earn.
I'd gone from wishlists to possessions to guilt to fear in sixty days or less. It was such a waste of emotion and an unthankful way to look at my life -- whether I was wanting for money and dreaming of shopping or loathing myself for having more than the bare minimum, I was cultivating ingratitude on a grand scale.
When I look at both sides of the coin now, I'm embarrassed.
And I'm seeing things more clearly now. And enjoying life more.
I figured out that I needed to organize my spending more in order to start giving to others in a deliberate, organized, need-based way. I decided to start saving and planning ahead for things like houses and cars, because those things might end up feeling like possibilities for me one day. And I decided to practice thankfulness instead of materialism as soon as I would feel my wishlists kicking in, while at the same time, allowing myself a few things here and there that gave me a sense of satisfaction to earn.
Tonight, I learned that one of my roommates is moving on in a short while, which throws my financial picture into a bit of turmoil again. What is extra now is probably going to be assigned to fresh costs in months to come.
But I refuse to feel like I am making steps backward.
There is no backward for me anymore, or a particular state of income or lack of income that is going to create either greater peace or greater guilt in my life. As soon as money starts to dominate my thoughts like that, I know that I need to get a serious dose of perspective either way. It's just stuff -- or a lack of stuff, if you will.
And whatever happens, I'm going to be okay. Because wishlists are not what matter -- living is. And I haven't managed to stop doing that yet.
12:40:13 AM 
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