THE COOL GUY WITH THE NORMAL CHAIR
For the past couple weeks, I’d been mentally doing math every time I bought groceries.
Then a few things came together. I turned in some claims I’d forgotten about. A refund hit. I checked my account this morning and felt that small wave of relief that comes when the number stops looking tight.
My first thought was: I should buy that keyboard.
I have a keyboard. It works. It’s just bigger than I’d like. The one I want is smaller, cleaner, more compact. It would give me more desk space. I’ve had it on my wish list for a while.
None of that is why I wanted to buy it this morning.
I wanted to buy it because my account had money in it and my brain read that as permission. Not need. Permission. Like the money was already burning a hole and buying something was the appropriate response to having it.
I sat with that for a minute. I’ve been meditating again lately. Not for long, 20 minutes in the morning, but enough to notice when a thought is mine and when it’s just noise. The urge to spend wasn’t coming from wanting the keyboard. It was coming from somewhere else. The low balance had scared me. The money was relief. Relief wants to celebrate by spending itself back down.
That’s the cycle. I’ve been running it for years.
I’m trying to replace not having with spending.
I grew up with used things.
Thrift store clothes. Hand-me-downs. Things with small stains that someone would say were fine. While other kids at school showed up in new things, I showed up in things that had already belonged to someone else. It’s not a complaint. My family did with what we had. But a kid doesn’t process that as economics. A kid processes it as standing. A stain on a bag means something about the person carrying it.
I felt less than. Not all the time. Not in every room. But in the rooms where it was visible, I felt it.
I’ve been trying to spend my way out of that feeling ever since.
There’s a beach chair on my wish list too.
I have two perfectly functional beach chairs. I ride my bike to the beach sometimes, haul my gear in a trailer, set up and stay awhile. Either of my chairs would hold me fine.
But this new one has built-in magnets that work with two magnetic cups I already own. The cups stick to the armrest. I wouldn’t have to worry about it tipping over in the sand. And there’s a second magnet for a small Bluetooth speaker.
I would be, and I mean this sincerely, the cool guy at the beach.
I sat with that one too. Who am I being the cool guy for? Because the beach I go to is not a place where anyone is paying attention to my chair. I ride my bike over, lock it to a post, set up in the sand, and read or watch the water. Nobody is watching. Nobody is keeping score.
Nobody except me.
The voice that says I’m not enough is quietest when I’m moving. It’s quiet on the ride over. It’s quiet in the water. It’s quiet when I’m reading and barely tracking the words. There’s no story running about what I should have. Just the wind, or the waves, or whatever’s in front of me.
It gets loud the moment I pick up my phone and open my wish list.
What I’ve started to understand is that the spending isn’t really about the thing. The keyboard isn’t about desk space. The chair isn’t about magnetic cups. The magnets are a flag. They say I’m not the regular guy. They make me visible. It’s the same voice that’s been running since I was a kid in someone else’s shirt, trying not to let it show.
Every purchase is a temporary answer to a question I keep asking myself: are you enough yet? I am not enough. That’s the state it lives in. And every time I open my wish list, I’m handing it a credit card.
The answer is always yes for about a day.
I didn’t buy the keyboard this morning.
I’m not going to tell you that was easy or that I’ve figured something out. A few months ago I bought a new bag. They call them crossbody bags now, because fanny packs are out. It’s a fanny pack. I wear it the 80’s way, around my waist, in the front. I don’t care what they call it or how I’m wearing it. But I got bleach on it, big bleach spots on the green, and it drove me crazy. The bag worked fine. The new one has inside pockets and a different clasp. I loved it. I bought it.
That was the point, wasn’t it.
I noticed the pattern. I still hit purchase. That’s where I actually am. Not at the part where I figured it out. At the part where I can see it happening and sometimes choose differently and sometimes don’t.
The kid who felt less than in used clothes was just trying to survive a situation he didn’t choose. He did what made sense at the time. But I’m not that kid anymore, and the clothes are mine now.
The cool guy at the beach is whoever shows up and stays present long enough to actually enjoy it.