Tagged: money

I NEED to stop eating out.

I have developed a serious eating out addiction, internet. It’s really bad. I’d guesstimate that out of the last two, maybe three months, I’ve either ordered in or gotten takeout about 15-20 days out of every month.

I could technically look and figure it out, but I’m a little scared to.

If you consider an average cost of 15 bucks a meal (which, let’s be honest, is probably less than what it actually is), I’m spending anywhere from $225 to $300 every month on takeaway. On top of that, I go grocery shopping for snacks and things about every week, so I’m probably spending…

You know what? Let’s not. I have a problem, I’ve identified the problem. Let’s not overanalyze the problem.

The top culprit here has been Asian food. Any type. Sushi, Thai, Chinese. We have a killer new Szechuan type restaurant that makes this amazing fried rice and I. Crave. It.

But it needs to stop. So I’m making a list of new recipes and forcing myself to bring lunch to work. Even if it’s a ham sandwich.

The sad thing is I love to cook, but I’ve become very good at telling myself I don’t have time to cook.

Which, given the amount of time I spend on Buzzfeed these days, is technically true.

Any good recipe ideas, internet?

WHY MUST YOU TAUNT ME??

WHY MUST YOU TAUNT ME??

It’s going to be okay.

Some of you reading this are going to say I’m a sheltered pansy for this blog post, but I don’t really care. Take your high-flaluting options elsewhere.

I have a car. It is a pretty nice car. It’s a 2010 Ford Escape that I got with the gracious assistance of my parents and my grandfather last fall. My parents are helping me pay off the car because they are awesome and supportive.

Before that I had another car, which my grandparents paid for entirely, and every time it needed a tune up or a fix-up, somebody else in my family paid for it.

I’m explaining this so that you get a handle on how I felt today when I had to hand over my credit card to pay for a car fix to the tune of $463.03.

Woof.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – I am very lucky. I grew up in a loving, financially stable household where I wanted for nothing. I was (and still kind of am) spoiled rotten, especially because I’m an only child. I got a decent scholarship in college and my parents paid for the rest. I didn’t really have to work to pay for anything, really, until this year, and I half-scored, half-stumbled into a fantastic full time job doing what I love, while still being able to teach yoga on the side. I am probably that kid you hated in high school and (maybe still hate a little bit now) because of my blinding, disgusting, perhaps a little unfair run with luck.

Some of you reading this have probably been working your asses off paying for rent and college and bills and food since you were very young. You might be feeling equal parts annoyance and jealousy at my softness and wellbeing. Some of you might be shaking your head at my naïveté, having learned to balance a checkbook and pay for taxes in high school or college.

I admire you for your strength and perseverance and sheer grit, but this blog post really isn’t for you today.

This blog post it for the very few who might be reading who, like me, are just now leaving the nest and facing rent and bills and expenses and hard, long hours of work for the first time, and whom might be very, very scared.

Because you need to know that along with the fear of signing away that $463.03, and mentally checking my expenses for the rest of the month and wondering what the electric bill was was going to look like and yeah, a little bit of wanting to ask my family to help out, there was pride. Pride because damn straight that was my hard earned money, paying for my car, which I’m going to drive back to my apartment to eat lunch that I bought with my damn money and made by myself.

And it’s not play pretend this time, it’s not just for now. It’s life. It’s started. And now I know that the next time I back into a ditch into the middle of the night and bend my muffler around my rear tire (yeah, yeah, I know) I can handle it.

Hey, maybe my account is a little lower than I’d like, but I’m going to be okay. Maybe it’s a little sad that I’m having this realization at 23, but I’m having it. And if you’re leaving home for the first time, if you’re 16 or 30, if you are careful and smart and work very hard, you’re going to be okay, too. 

I love you guys.

 

Panic mode.

I’m sick again, internet. I sound like a young Owen Wilson in scuba gear. It’s not cute. Yesterday’s complete lack of effort is probably a testament to how awful I feel, since after 43 blog posts I can crank out 500 words on cat poop and Justin Bieber without breaking a sweat. Yet I made a commitment to writing a blog post everyday, rain or shine or sickness, so here goes nothing.

***

Let’s talk about panic. Tis the season for taxes, internet, and I was going through stuff yesterday and I was absolutely shocked at how little I made between September and December in 2012. It was honestly pathetic. Granted, since then, I’ve started this blog, gotten promoted, started working more shifts and applied for another job, but I really haven’t changed my living situation dramatically since May 2012. I feel like I’m living in stasis in a weird way, whereas I want to keep pushing forward and moving and progressing. The weird thing is, once you’re out of school, “forward” motion changes from “do the same thing you’re doing till you graduate” to “you could literally do anything, but don’t fuck it up, you ignorant ponce”.

Enter panic mode. I was good at school. Not like, valedictorian of Harvard good, but pretty good. I like learning things. I like studying. I rewrote the introduction of my thesis for fun the other day. FUN. 

I am not good at not being in school- or at least, not yet. I’m not a person who does well adjusting to change, especially if I have to change. I will grit my teeth and fight against change just out of principle. Usually the things I decide I don’t want in my life I end up loving. I really disliked yoga for a long time – now I teach it. I hated my alma mater when I first looked at schools – but I loved going there. Brussel sprouts? Now my favorite vegetable.

However, I don’t have anything to fight against now. I feel like I’m facing this void that I have to fill myself. Before I had limited options. I could take Art History at 12:15 on Tuesday or 3pm on Wednesday. Ta-da. Done. Now, it’s just starting to hit me that I could literally get in the car and drive to California and never come back, if I wanted. I could fly to Peru right now. I could take a crappy job at McDonalds or set myself on fire or rob a bank, and there is very little holding me back (save my bank account and my own limited sense of morality).

My cat and I play this game where I let him outside and he immediately wants to come back in.

Stop that, you asshole. Go pee on something or whatever you do.

Stop that, you asshole. Go pee on something or whatever it is you do.

I kind of feel like that. All my life I thought I was the kind of person who hated schedules. Now I crave structure. When I was in school, I wanted to be on break. Now I hang out in the local library reading about Pablo Neruda just for giggles.

I feel like every time I figure out my current situation, something changes. And I hate it.

I applied to grad school last year for graphic design, and I didn’t get in. This year, I applied to six different places for creative writing, and since the applications went in, I’ve been living in panic that I won’t get in anywhere. I feel like I’m not justified applying three years in a row. Getting denied two years in a row? That’s the world’s way of telling you you’re being a stupid git and to figure out Plan B.

Guess what, internet? I DON’T HAVE A PLAN B. I have nothing, nada, zip. I’ve been trying to figure out Plan B since last year when Grad School Take 1 backfired.

There are several things I do know. I can’t remain in stasis working two part-time jobs forever, no matter how much I love working them, and certainly not if I’m not raking in enough to support myself. I don’t think I could stay in my parent’s house for another year – if the shame wouldn’t kill me, the cat would (he’s plotting something, I swear).

I think I might be having a mid-life crisis. At 23. How sad.

If you have any sincere advice, internet, let me know.