02. No Money, Mo Problems 💸💸💸

AKA: The Never Ending Quest to Have a Healthy Relationship with Money

Imagine a world in which I’m using this picture non-ironically while drinking my daily Bulletproof coffee from the comfort of my Peloton at 5AM, pedaling my heart to climax before a day full of Zoom calls with fellow venture capitalist brotons. IMAGINE.

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I hate money.

I want money.

I’m afraid of money.

I don’t know how to talk about money.

I don’t know how to feel about money —

Other than, of course: GUILTY.

And so this week, we’re going to talk about (drumroll, please) MONEY. How much do you make? How much is your rent? Your mortgage? Why is it so awkward to talk about? Oh, right. Because: guilt. Because: fear. Maybe it’s just me. Most likely, it’s not.

I feel guilty all the time. For spending when I shouldn’t, for not making enough, for not spending when I should, for not being generous enough, for ever complaining about my finances when other people have-it-so-much-worse, for foregoing higher-paying opportunities in lieu of no-pay artistic endeavors, for letting the men I date pay for dinners, for buying cheap gifts, for getting a pair of overalls (because who needs overalls besides farmers and fashionable babies?), for that one time I fucked up and ended up in the emergency room without health insurance and had to ask my grandparents for a loan because I couldn’t pay out of pocket (I’m so stupid, so STUPID — why didn’t I sign up for health insurance EARLIER?!), for ever wanting help, for being too ashamed to ask for help because I don’t have rich parents, so who am I to ask for help?

It’s all very tied to self-worth, unfortunately. I won’t speak for everyone; I can only speak for myself. Today’s letter is loose, friends — a smattering of poems, lists, questions. A recent exploration to finally try to figure out: How the hell can I live peaceably with money?

Because, damn. My finances are the most toxic boyfriend I’ve ever had.

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“Money O!”

When I had money, money, O!
I knew no joy till I went poor;
For many a false man as a friend
Came knocking all day at my door.
Then felt I like a child that holds
A trumpet that he must not blow
Because a man is dead; I dared
Not speak to let this false world know.
Much have I thought of life, and seen
How poor men-s hearts are ever light;
And how their wives do hum like bees
About their work from morn till night.
So, when I hear these poor ones laugh,
And see the rich ones coldly frown-
Poor men, think I, need not go up
So much as rich men should come down.
When I had money, money, O!
My many friends proved all untrue;
But now I have no money, O!
My friends are real, though very few.

William Henry Davies

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Finding the Problem Inside the Problem

Why do I struggle to part with my money?

At the top of this week, I started my money-healing journey (ugh) by writing a list. Whenever I’m lost, I write lists. They’re not always effective (my to-do lists are never to-done), but they make the infinite feel finite, so. Here ‘tis.

A List of Some Money Stuff I Do That’s Probably Not Great

• Spend hours filling online carts with clothes only to entirely abandon the order because I, quote, “Do not deserve to spend so much on clothes.”

• Limit myself to one avocado per grocery trip because they’re expensive (insane behavior)

• Pocket little things at self-checkout (just kidding, your honor, I would never)

• Panic

• Return everything

• Struggle to spend an extra dollar for a side of salsa but then buy a $40 tube of concealer??

• Let parking tickets ruin my entire day (fine, week)

• Compare my “hardships” to those of my immigrant grandparents (i.e. I believe that I am a marshmallow who should never ever complain)

Ah, mis abuelos. Let’s start there. Let’s go waaaay back. To this picture:

Behold! Our lord and savior, Jesus Christ.

Okay, I’m kidding. This is a portrait of my abuelita as a young woman.

But, to be fair: to name this portrait Jesus isn’t totally inaccurate. My grandma is the family martyr. She is our own Jesus Christ, our little personal pizza of pain. She died for all of our sins and she’s still alive.

Gramma loves throwing herself on the train tracks, fabulously as a cartoon damsel. Every time I go to her house, she’s all, “I can’t believe you guys made me cook for everyone again!” We’re like, abuela. You didn’t have to make 400 flautas for 5 people and also we asked if you wanted to go out to eat and you said “Why? You don’t like my cooking anymore?!” It’s a trap!

God, I love that woman. She can be as dramatic as she wants, she’s earned it. 😘

I love this portrait of her. And I’m intimidated by it. Because I am the opposite of the family martyr. I am… what? A soft little artist girl. A whiny youngin who doesn’t know real hard work? A…. degenerate.

Okay, I’m not. But my problem with money — it lives somewhere in there, in that feeling that I am an undeserving complainer. My metal detector is ding ding ding-ing, I’m so close to that golden secret. That golden shame.

If only I were close to actual gold, that’d cure all of my money woes lickety-split. Everybody knows the adage “money can’t buy happiness” is a myth. It can. It does. I’ve known that since high school, when I started my still-favorite hobby of saving multimillion dollar mansions on Zillow that I would be so happy living in, believe me.

I’m oversimplifying. I know. Don’t send me that one study that’s like: “Actually, all people who make $40,000 a year and above are the same level of happy, until they reach billionaire-status. Rich people are actually sadder.” You’re telling me that billionaires are statistically miserable? I don’t buy it. I can’t afford to.

Badum-psh! 🥁

I hate to admit it, but my money-disorder grew to full bloom inside a Starbucks. I was in sixth grade and I was with my dad and I pointed to a blueberry muffin standing like a trophy in the glass case of pastries.

“Can I have a muffin, dad?"

To which he replied: “Do you need the muffin?”

Need. Oof. No, I guess… I guess I didn’t need the muffin. I was already getting a hot chocolate, probably, so that was enough of a treat. How greedy of me. Come to think of it, this experience may also may have planted the first seed of what eventually became an eating disorder. Not because my parents ever made me feel any shame around food (don’t worry, dad!) — it’s just, both money and weight became these horrible numbers games in my adolescence (keep money high keep weight low) because the world is a snow globe of chaos and I’m a control freak who ends up controlling things that hurt her. Real hot girl shit.

No, I didn’t need the muffin. Financially, nor calorically. I still walk into cafes as that sixth grade girl. Leaving with a coffee in hand, pastry-less.

My parents always fought about money. They had me when they were young, in their early 20s. Children raising children. On a nothing budget. I don’t know how they did it. Credit cards? I don’t ask too much about their finances. All I know is, my brother Nick and I, as the two older siblings, grew up on Baskin Robbins and McDonalds not because it was fun (even though we thought so) but because it was cheap. My dad didn’t ask if I needed the muffin because he didn’t want me to have it. He was stressed about feeding the rest of my siblings—I have three, all younger—on a single income. Again, I don’t know how he did it. Point is: if you give a mouse a muffin, she’s gonna ask for a muffin every time she goes to Starbucks, and four dollar muffins add UP.

I’m not complaining about any of this. I’m just trying to figure it out. Pop-therapy calls my problem a “scarcity mindset.” What does that mean?

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Thought Experiment: How Many Rich Friends Does a Poor Friend Have, but the Poor Friend’s Not That Poor?

I live in Los Angeles. I work in entertainment. A lot of my friends have rich parents. It comes with the territory. I do not have rich parents. This is sometimes confusing. For them, and for me.

I’ve had friends try to level the playing field with me. “I was basically middle class, too.” A college teammate of mine used to do that. I went to Stanford, which was the first place I ever felt the need to define myself based on my socioeconomic background, because it was the first place I saw true wealth. For example, right now. I feel the need to assure you: I WENT THERE ON SCHOLARSHIP. Because how dare you think I could actually afford that place. I am not that type of Stanford. I am the hard-knocks type. My teammate was from Orange County. She had name brand clothes. This does not make her evil, but it does make her different, from me. I didn’t know how to break it to her that: 1) She was not poor and 2) Neither was I. I was just, what? Normal? And she was Normal Plus. Would that have made her feel better? To define ourselves that way?

I think it boils down to:

“I want to know that I’ve earned what I’ve gotten in this life.”

People want to feel that. My rich friends, my normal friends, my Normal Plus friends. You want to know that you’ve earned what you have. Honestly, my rich friends might be the most desperate for this feeling. Separating from their parents’ shadows. They want to know that the money they’ve made, the recognition they’ve gotten, is truly theirs. I struggle to empathize. But I understand.

My parents make more money now. They’re a lot more comfortable than the Baskin Robbins Era. But their recent up-leveling isn’t a part of my canon. My brain was born in the before-times. Before Comfort. B.C. The “poorer times?” Doesn’t sound right. Sounds like I’m being dramatic. I’m trying to qualify myself to myself now. When are you down-and-out enough to complain? Where did you really come from? Why is it so uncomfortable to talk about?

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Interlude: The Skeleton Dance

“The Skeleton Dance” is that children’s song that goes: 

The foot bone’s connected to the LEG bone!

The leg bone’s connected to the KNEE bone…

The knee bone’s connected to the THIGH bone —

The money bone is connected to… all of my bones. It’s tethered to everything. It’s connected to my hip bone, my elbow, my brain. Expands like a fungus throughout my entire body. I am a zombie mushroom girl from The Last of Us, screeching confused and thoughtless to the heavens.

Yummy mushroom person from The Last of Us.

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Curing the Disease

The money bone is connected to the self-worth bone.

I’m listening to a podcast (ugh) about manifestation (ugh) — 

The woman on the podcast tells me: Money is tied to self-worth.

I tell the woman on the podcast: Duh. I’m brooding. I’m skeptical.

She says: In order to develop a healthier relationship with money, you need to clear the idea that what you want to do with your life is bad. That you are bad. How often do you tell yourself “I’m bad”?

I think at the woman on the podcast: Often. So what?

She can hear my thoughts, I’m sure. She responds: Identify those thoughts, so that you can clear them. They’re blocking your financial abundance.

Abundance. I shrivel at that word. ~*Abundance*~ It’s very $150-yoga-class. But, fine. I’ll play along. Identify the bads. Clear them.

“I am bad.” Why am I bad? Why do I think I’m bad? I don’t think I’m completely bad. I just —

Okay, start small. Small bad. I went to an open mic today. I haven’t done stand-up comedy in months. I’m just getting back into it. I wasn’t feeling it. I was bad. I bombed. I am an imposter. I am not funny. I am a fool for continuing to choose lines of work that I love that do not love me back. I am not funny. I am bad.

Ha. Okay. This is easy, coming up with the bads.

Clear that.

“I am not funny.” Let it go. This is harder. But I do it. I let it go. At least, I think I do? I let it go in the moment. I’m not convinced it’s gone forever. “I am not funny.” But it feels good to let go, even temporarily.

What else makes me feel bad? Pff. What doesn’t? This is the easiest game. Shame marbles heavy in my head. I spill them out in front of me and let them roll everywhere, anywhere.

What thoughts do I see?

One of my best friends. Former best friends. We don’t talk anymore. I’m still not sure why things between us fell apart. I have dreams about us making amends. What happened? My fault. It’s my fault. I don’t deserve [insert anything here] because it was my fault and I am bad.

Let it go.

I’m in a relationship. I can’t stop arguing. I make fights out of thin air. I make mole hills from mist and mountains from mole hills. I am unreasonable. I am too much. I am bad.

Let it go.

Am I rich yet? When do I let go of enough bads to be rich? To afford one of those Zillow mansions I saved? You can have it all, money gods: I am not forgivable. I do not deserve to be forgiven. I am selfish. I am argumentative. I am too intense. I am withholding. I am rigid. I am bad —

Wait — What if I let all of these things go? Who am I without my shame? Am I undisciplined? Am I not holding myself accountable? 

Does this even have anything to do with money? You think I’m gonna tell the struggling nurse who works 78 hours a day that all of her money problems are gonna be cured by thinking she’s awesome? You think my hard-nosed immigrant abuelo is gonna buy that?

No.

I don’t know.

But I do feel lighter. Letting go. The shame.

Maybe this stupid podcast isn’t stupid.

Maybe this is progress.

I choose to — I must — think it’s so.

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Just a Reminder that Eggs are Super Expensive Now

Just when I think I have a chance of getting over my worries, the New York Times reminds me that eggs are out of my budget.

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/02/03/briefing/why-eggs-cost-so-much.html

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Stuff I Spent Money on That I Normally Wouldn’t

The Healing Process Begins

• Stuff to make homemade bagels (I’ll be using this recipe. I’ll report back.)

• A cute bed for my dog, Nematode

• Stuff to make sourdough bread (I’m late to the bread game, but better late than never

Damn, okay this isn’t as many “joyful purchases” as I thought. I still haven’t bought those overalls I want. Fak. They’re so cute. Okay, maybe next week I can rationalize the purchase. Look here they are, tell me if I should buy them:

TL; DR

So, apparently: To live peaceably, with money, I need to live peaceably with myself. Ugh. I mean, I know.

I might be the most toxic boyfriend I’ve ever had.

I’m trying to be better.

I’m starting a “Money Unblocking” workshop this week, so I’ll try to remember to let you know how that goes.

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Homework Assignment!

I’d love to hear some of your money stories. How you deal with money. How you’re good with it. How you’re terrible with it. Do you know what “stocks” are, for example? Or perhaps a 401K? What was your relationship to money like growing up? Should I buy those overalls? Hit the comment section or email me:

nat@greatjobnat.com

And think about leveling up your subscription — the advice column is coming up for my paid peoples, and I want you to have access ;)

Until next week!

xoxo

nat