3 posts tagged “personal”

What is it about permission--specifically, about being told "no" when you either want to be told "yes" or not questioned at all? As we grow up, as children, we are often told "no" by parents, who either control the money, or know best regarding this situation, or that. "I want a bike!" I yelled. And mom said "No, you should save some money so you can help pay for half."

I imagine myself sitting there, dumbfounded... how I would be able to save-up half the money for that shiny bike. Seeing other kids get the bikes made the experience all the more painful.

As an adult, I no longer ask permission. I figure I am the adult, and I don't need it. Yet, in times like tonight, I'm still told that most-feared word: "No!" How frustrating it is to be told you cannot buy something. I had a $180 fancy noise-filtering surge protector for my stereo in my hands... "You can't buy that! How much is that? Oh no, put it back."

Next was a demand to know what it did. "Well, we don't need that." We. I paid for the stereo. And I intended on paying for this surge protector, too, but I was told, "You can't have it."

So, yes, bitter here I sit. Wondering how much "cleaner" the hi-fi would sound with the surge protector. I already have an investment in $450 for cables, why hold back on $180 for the improvement in power? I have thousands of dollars worth of equipment hooked up right now through a $14.99 plastic power strip. It doesn't make sense.

I don't wnat to spend the money either, but I feel I have an obligation here.

In the car, on the ride home, I heard detailed reasons why I could not buy that device. The amount the car repair cost today. The amount of the upcoming vacation. The home repairs. The amount I already paid to upgrade the hi-fi. Then the dismissive tone: That thing isn't going to do anything, anyhow, you know...

Not only do kids and their parents have money problems, but couples fight too. My mom was a big saver, and my dad the spender. I have friends who are married and split everything. They don't share one cent in a joint account. They both accept responsibility for their own debt.

I understand the good intentions in holding me back. But I also feel I deserve it. I win an award. That's grounds for some element of celebration, right? Why not a surge protector to insure the investment in hi-fi hardware? I've felt nasty for the past week with sinus problems... allergies... why not "pull myself out" of the doledrums with a little stereo upgrade? Why not just look at it as an investment in my passion?

If you are reading this, and trying to decide who is "right" here, you are likely to take one of two sides:

• I am lucky to have someone in my life who is concerned with my financial health, and is willing to stand-up to me, and even upset me, to ensure my financial welfare.
• I shouldn't need a reason to buy something. I am an adult and no spouse, partner, or loved one should stand in the way of telling me what I can do... at least at this type of issue, and price-point.

It's difficult, for sure. Difficult in balancing desire, want, and responsibility and the knowledge that someone you care about is standing in your way.

I should add some detail to demonstrate the complexity. Another mall store sells a massaging device for $300. And I love getting my feet rubbed. No one in a 10-mile radius here likes rubbing my feet. The "NO!" character has a $50 gift certificate for the store that sells the foot-joy machine. "Go get that machine, I'll give you my card" has been uttered.

I wince at the thought of spending that money on something so personal and indulgent. But spending $250 plus a $50 gift card, some how, is a "yes" versus the $180 stereo "upgrade" is a pass. Maybe its just my history. Growing up, my parents always had credit card debt. They routinely carried $2000 on their cards, collectively. Yet every few months, I'll hear "Goodie! We're debt free once again..." or "you're debt free again... let's keep it that way."

Yet if I die tomorrow, who cares. Yes, I do think like that.

I know my desire is true and just. I know debt-free living is in my best interest.

I just want an über-stereo. I can't afford the next $1000 upgrade now. I know that. But I thought $180 was reasonable. No?

Today I attended an off-site meeting. I got there early. I usually take a notebook into the meeting, but realized I had all my fancy pens in my leather coat. Wasn't wearing that one today.

So I punched in "Staples" in the navigation system, and took off, like a bat out of hell, out of their parking lot, and was en route to the nearest Staples office supply store. "That was easy."

I saunter into Staples, and look at the time. Lots of time... this Staples was only 2.4 miles away from the meeting site. I love office supplies. They're like a fettish of mine, all those pads of paper, sundry pens, and don't get me stated on the binding systems.

As I perused the merchandise, my suffering took major occupation of thought and bother: another IBS attack was on the move. Gas, bloating, and pain overcame me. I had to cut my shopping extravaganza short, and only took home one package of gel pens.

With all four pens securely affixed to my inside coat pocket, I hopped, half-sauntered, really, to the car, trying to express as much gas as possible in the open (yet cold) air. With all the gas displaced, I got into the car, and again, with great speed, navigated the parking lot, back out onto the roads. My destination was only 2.4 miles away, but I could have fun getting there.

Upon arrival, I exited, and grabbed my notebook, pressing my hand against my breast pocket, checking for those new pens. Uh... I had better get to a bathroom... this was dire. Emergency-level pain and discomfort.

Little did I imagine the discomfort wouldn't be mine.

I took my place an a still empty meeting room, and found the nearest restroom. This was a serious endeavor, so I had to disrobe from my large coat, pens pocket-clad, and grab hold of the side rail, placed there to assit those wheelchair bound. Oh, it wasn't pretty sight, I am sure, but it was a prodigious discharge. Very much so. Only, who knew this place had hardly any water pressure.

Water pressure is important. You need water pressure to get a thorough hand washing, and an even more thorough second flush. I think the toilet was all stopped. I needed a good second flush, but damned it I was going to stand around in this stink-infested bathroom, and wait until the tank filled again, with water that was seemingly being piped-in from the Sahara.

I know, I know, what you must be thinking. "If you made the stink, you ought to be able to stand it." No thanks. A smell is a smell, and I don't care to be around it. So, I foamed up my hands in their fancy soap, but had quite a time rinsing it all off. The toilet had been initially flushed, but was now overflowing with requisite paper that was filling a void that ought to be now housing clean water.

"As long as no one comes in here, it will be okay... no one will know..."

Less stress in my abdomen, I exited the bathroom, head down low. God. I spotted a woman. She was waiting, for some time, to use this bathroom. Didn't she know-there were others? Didn't she know--this was the last place she wants to go into? It's nasty in there, lady. Real, bad type of nasty. And I don't know what to think when you look in that bowl and see a party of paper? You'll try to flush, but it will be a good 10 minutes more until this sorry place pumps in enough water to try and flush it all down... and then... it's a 50/50 chance it will work.

It will be her and the giant plunger for the next 20 minutes, for sure, until she tries to bow out and escape.

I felt bad, but not bad enough to stop her and rescue her from the horrors that await her within. I had to sit down, and catch my breath. Suffering from IBS isn't unlike giving birth. Relief set in, but only with shame and disdain, as I pictured her uncertain quandry upon shutting the door. "AIr, need air?!" And then the hunt for disinfectant... the plunger... the lack of water pressure. I am so sorry I made this such a bad day for you, lady.

But such is the luck of the draw.

As the meeting started, I soon forgot about the mess I left behind, and took sweet joy in the feel of beautiful liquid, gel ink flowing onto the pages before me. It wasn't until a later gas attack hit me later in the day did I think back to what I had to leave in the absence of good water pressure.

As the new year starts, I find myself a bit depressed. I just had a talk with X who thinks I'm not strong enough to lose weight, and I also learned yesterday that my parents spent about $45 on him for Christmas gifts.

I don't want to equate their feelings with dollar amounts, but that was a small gift. While he is not bothered by it, I find it insulting.

The weight issue--yes, I want to improve. X says he is trying to be tough with me. But I feel I need support, not a trainer to yell and shell-out corrective measures. At any rate, I decided to start a spreadsheet to track some information as I do try and lose weight. It may not be a daily exercise, but one that will allow me to see changes.