I’m supposed to be writing about luxury. My first paid writing assignment is on a topic so far removed from my reality it would make my editors scream in panic. So I try and take a slanted approach, what luxury means in the present economy, blah blah blah. Then I write a cheeky Christmas gift-guide by presenting ludicrous selections: Italian truffles, a bottle of perfume for $215K, champagne for $50,000 a pop. Extreme gift-giving, absurd suggestions for the person who has everything. Surely no one would take me seriously ... except, of course, someone does.
Luxury for me these days entails whether or not I should use two eggs in my tuna salad instead of the usual one ... I ponder this dilemma over and over while washing out the last zip-lock bag to re-use. Luxurious decisions of whether to spend my last ten dollars on a gallon of milk, more zip-lock bags, gas, cheap wine or cigarettes, and I go with the cheap wine and cigs every time. My extravagance is embarrassing. But I will say that I have become quite adept at finding really decent cheap wine. I am forty-three-years-old and my mother is sending me care packages ... she does not know about the wine and cigarettes. As for bills, I laugh hysterically as they fly into the wastebasket. I used to be very diligent about those pesky life details. So much has changed during this Great Depression, I have become a resourceful moocher, dating men with good jobs so that I get at least one decent meal a day. And with a somewhat straight face, I can convince most anyone that I am doing well these days, no worse than the rest of the world in these lousy economic times. No one needs to know that I am stealing Splenda from the library cafe. If there was a most-wanted file for debtors, I would list at the top, the reward for any information on my whereabouts would place someone in a different tax-bracket. No, I really shouldn’t be writing luxury articles in any shape or form.
But the thing is, and I am not making this up, I am feeling pretty damn happy these days. Of course, I could use some cash, no doubt, but when forty dollars makes me throw my head back and laugh deliriously, I know that place called rock-bottom isn’t as jagged as I always imagined it to be. Back when I was rich, married, solvent and throwing beautiful dinner parties every Thursday evening, I was also suicidal, popping Xanaxs left and right and feeling quite tragic most of the time as I wept on my shrink’s couch. My newfound poverty has brought forth a personal strength I never knew existed, the survivalist in me coming out with bravado. I feel carefree in a crazy, upside-down, in-your-face way. As I tool around in my 1988 Mercedes Benz with sounds coming from under the hood like tiny, angry dwarves banging pots and pans, I don’t worry too much about the imminent demise of the machine. When the dryer breaks, I cheerfully hang my underwear on the patio and pretend that I live in a pastel house in Portofino. I use the comfy leather couches in the library like my own personal living room, and praise the Lord for free internet access. All this tuna-fish-eating is making me svelte, and I still land dates with surprising frequency. What will be, will be. Happiness often disguises itself in the oddest attire.
I was once silver. And when the silver girl fell from grace, something dormant in me rose, just like the sun still rises every morning. And that, my friends, is pure, unabashed luxury.
