If you’re like me, you grew up wishing your family had money. Pots and pots of it, in fact.
Enough money to buy new clothes whenever you wanted them. And take exotic vacations, instead of driving to scenic Oklahoma in the back of the station wagon because your dad had business there.
Enough money to own a (gasp) color television and a fancy bar with cocktail glasses. And to play squash.
Today, our family might be classified as working poor, but I read books as a girl about wealthy families, and I knew what I wanted in my future life: A squash court, for one.
Forget tennis. Rich people played squash, at least according to my favorite authors. I wasn’t exactly sure how to play this game — although I knew zucchini were not involved, which was a shame, because we had tons of it in our garden. I just knew it was a rich people’s sport.
Then there were the phones. The name said it all. “Princess.” Princesses had these pastel phone extensions in their bedrooms. Ordinary mortals did not.
Our family had one olive green phone in the house, in the living room next to where my parents sat after dinner. If I wanted a private conversation,, I had to climb into the coat closet and shut the door. Luckily, the phone had a long cord.
I know some of you have no idea what I’m talking about, because you grew up with a great invention: The mobile phone. No cords, no closets, more privacy than your parents would like. You carry around a space-age communication device in your pockets and you don’t even appreciate how miraculous this is. But I do.
I enjoyed my fantasies about being rich for many years, until I actually worked for rich people. In my early 20s, I worked for an entertainment company in Beverly Hills that handled the money for celebrities, including famous musicians, bands and actors.
I’d just moved to Southern California and I was living on bags of russet potatoes and ice tea, because that’s all I could afford. Every day, at my new job, I’d think “Who are these people and why do they get to have all this money?” when I’d be called on to messenger $1,000 over to one client who was in a poker game, or write monthly paychecks to the 13 housekeepers at another client’s many houses around the world.
But, as I became familiar with this strange environment, I realized that it wasn’t what it seemed. Yes, these people had oceans of money, more than they even knew what to do with, which is why they hired my bosses to invest it for them.
But few actually seemed happy, nor did they appear to appreciate the luxuries that most of us would give our eyeteeth for. I came to realize that money stopped meaning anything, once you had pots of it.
And you had new worries: The threat of losing your stash and having to live like a peasant again. Whether your new friends were real. How to spend your time now that you didn’t even have to work.
I was shocked to realize that I’d been lucky to grow up in a house where money was tight.
I knew I’d always make enough to survive, even if I lost my job. How to scrimp and save. How to live on baked potatoes.
I also knew that possessions weren’t it. Everyone needs a minimum of stuff, but more than that doesn’t satisfy you after awhile. Yes, here you need a reliable car. (My elderly Toyota gets me around as well as a Rolls Royce would.) And shelter. And enough to eat. After that, it’s all negotiable.
I can fix stuff. OK, not my dryer. But when I rip my pants, I can mend them, because I learned how to sew. My children consider this a strange and borderline magical skill, and I explain to them that, no, you don’t always have to throw things away. Glue, duct tape and thread can fix an amazing number of items.
I know how to cook. Yes, I like to go out to eat. I have no fetish about washing dishes. But I can make tasty meals at home, too. I learned how to cook watching “Chopped” on TV. I recommend it.
I can take care of myself, and my house, too. I learned how to clean and to work hard at an early age. Nowadays, since I’m gimpy, I do have a housekeeper who comes on Fridays and helps me out. But when my kids were little and informed me pompously they didn’t have to clean their rooms because “Dora is coming tomorrow,” I took action. Dora stopped cleaning their rooms. Period. They needed to learn to keep their spaces clean. (They also washed their own clothes.)
Looking back, I realize that my parents did me a favor, teaching me to survive on a pittance. If I win the lottery, I won’t complain about it. I’m not a moron. But, f not, I’ll still be satisfied. (And, God, if you’re listening. I was just kidding. I need to win the lottery. Thank you.)
