When I was a younger man, I was quite the spendthrift blowing through tons of money that I didn't actually have. Like many others of my generation, I lived way beyond my means on a series of credit cards that I would repeatedly max out the credit limits on and end up slaving away, some times for years, in an effort to pay off. When I first moved to New York in the late 80s to attend the NYU publishing program, I did so with visions of Jay McInerney's Bright Lights, Big City dancing in my head. I eventually landed a job at Random House and wasn't daunted by the fact that it only paid $13,000 a year because in my mind I was on my way to living the life I had always dreamt about.
Sharing a tiny three bedroom apartment in Soho with four friends from school, my portion of the rent was a whopping $700 a month. Despite the expense, we lived happily on ramen noodles and a shared jar of peanut butter, and gorged on occasional freebies we would scam via work or friends who tended bars and waited tables. President Reagan was in office and it was a time of conspicuous consumption, and though my friends and I lived virtually below the poverty line, we still managed to make every night seem like New Year’s Eve. We made friends with the doormen at our favorite clubs and scored a permanent place on their guest lists with tons of free drink tickets to boot. It was a time to "see and be seen" and looking the part was very important. Thankfully the gaunt look was in because no one I knew could afford to eat. And when we weren't drinking our dinner, the Grand Union Supermarket on University Place took credit cards (practically unheard of at the time) keeping us in noodles and PB&J sandwiches in an attempt to add nourishment to our skeletal frames.
“All that matters is that you jump.”
Truth be told, I’m not all that social. It’s odd, since my actual job title is “Hospitality Coordinator,” a job for which I am completely without portfolio – my background in literature and law suggests something rather more Jarndyce and Jarndyce than Julie, Your Cruise Director. I dodge phone calls and invitations, ducking them as if they were fire-tipped arrows. I am often glad that I went wherever I went, but the dread is crippling. In some weird agoraphobia variant, I fear being buttonholed by a bore, made to act out The Twelve Days of Christmas or just jangled to death by the repetitive intrusion of other peoples’ noise and chatter and energy.
It came to me in a flash: sell the house. After my husband lost his
second job in eight months and after my agent stopped returning my calls. It
was the solution to all our problems. We hired a realtor – a young energetic
woman called Jen – and made a plan. We would sell our three bedroom home and
move to a loft in downtown Los Angeles. We would be downsizing, but it would be chic.
As we all know, one interesting by-product of the so-called 'economic crisis' is that many of us have become re-acquainted with the things that really matter in life i.e. love, comfort, safety, security, unlimited-ride Metrocards, and food.