I detest discussions about money – or, more specifically, ones concerning ways I cannot spend it. This disinclination may be the most obnoxious marker of my privilege.
It started, like so many weddings do, with a white dress. Not the wedding dress, which would come later, but a little cotton sundress I found on a rainy San Francisco day. I was waiting for my fiancé to arrive from his nonprofit job so we could walk together to Williams Sonoma and start to register for kitchen utensils. I ducked into a high-end store to get out of the rain.
“He makes sure I don’t go too far off the saving deep end, and I make sure we have enough money to pay all the bills.”
I no longer tacitly accept sleep as a biological imperative. It has become an earned indulgence, something I only deserve when I have labored according to cartoonish standards of diligence.
I have a tendency to stick my head in the sand and pretend that my bank account isn’t even there.
“You can do this,” I whispered under my breathe. “You can return these gloves.”