It’s been more than a year since I earned an income, but I remain delusional about my financial status. I’m still spending money like it grows on trees. I now understand how people wake up one day with $30,000 on their credit cards and a terrified tightness in their chest.
Not that I have $30,000 on my credit card. But every time I pay the bastard down, I get slammed with more bills. Hmmmm, let me rephrase that … every time Husband pays it down, something comes up. Last month it was a $1300 car servicing bill (you can shove that Toyota – slack buggers didn’t even wash the bloody thing – I’ll be going to the local servo next time), $650 skin-cancer removal bill and a few yum chas. Not to mention the $200-$300-$400 we spend on groceries each week.
And they’re just the unavoidables. I don’t feel too guilty about those. I mean, we need Weet-Bix and prawn dumplings … and it’s important to avert death by skin cancer. OK, the skin cancer wasn’t going to kill me, but it still had to go.
No, it’s the discretionary purchasing that has me worried.
Sprog 1 has been told to dress in Olympic colours for a band performance on Friday night. The other mothers advised me not to fuss, just send her in her sport uniform. But no, I popped up to the shops and bought her a $4 gold T-shirt. Pouf, another little Chinese child worker goes blind, sewing in a factory somewhere. Then I twirled off to Myer for a pair of green denim shorts. Actually, I bought those last week and put them away for her birthday – in November – but it seems the presents are starting early this year.
Oh, and along the way I saw these irresisistible star projector thingies that make your kid’s bedroom look like the Milky Way … only $10 each, bargain, so I popped them in my bag too. For the Sprogs Christmas stocking.
Oh, and there were these really cool T-shirts on sale for $5 and I thought Sprog 2 would be cross about Sprog 1 being the only one getting stuff. So I bought her one. And a pair of cargo pants because the last pair I got were too big and I couldn’t be bothered returning them. She’ll grow into them eventually.
And suddenly I’m $50 poorer.
Fortunately commonsense prevailed (actually, it was a broken escalator) and I didn’t go searching for new, over-priced Polly Pocket plastic crap to give to the Sprogs for their afternoon playtime.
I just can’t help myself. It must stop. It’s all very well feeling virtuous because I’m not buying things for ME. But I’m still spending money that I shouldn’t.
(Let’s not mention redrawing on the mortgage so Husband and I can fly to New York for that wedding next year. Shhhhhh!)
Geez I love spending money. I think it’s my talent. My shallow, shameful talent. Should I ever win the lottery, I will happily spend the rest of my days shopping. I might even stop when the World Wildlife Fund ask me for a donation. My sister and I have discussed it and we will shop together. In New York. Flying first class, of course. Possibly purchase ourselves a little pied terre in West Village to stow our purchases. We acknowledge that there may be a limit to how much we can buy for ourselves before we run out of places to put it all, so we think we will open a shop. Opening a shop means going on buying trips several times a year, for a legitimate reason, because it’s our JOB.
Buying trips as a job … be still my beating heart …
I must stop now, my adrenaline is going crazy.
Although I did just drink one of my foul, homemade iced coffees. I might be all buzzy from that.
Anyway, I haven’t won the lottery. So I need to stop shopping.
How do I do that? Any ideas? Remember, you’re dealing with an addict here …