Save? Whatever for? The ticking of my own body clock tells me that my future is playing right now, and that spending, not saving, is what makes perfect sense. Free from responsibilities except to myself, it’s time to throw caution to the wind and make my remaining time worth it.
Alas, my ways are set. How do I break free from being a lifelong tightwad? I should have begun loosening up earlier, but how could I have known?
Indeed, how, growing up as I did with a grandmother to whom self-denial was the greatest virtue, for whom the ultimate usefulness of a housewife lies in how far she can stretch the idea of frugality?
Lola Enchay believed that the habit of saving is the key of family well-being, and she may well be the strongest argument for it. Lola herself cooked, sewed and gardened, indeed, did what she could do, and learn to do, herself: Her husband’s hard-earned wages were to be saved by all wits and creativity she could muster.
As much as saving is, to her, the greatest gracia, so is spending a sort of necessary evil, itself checked by some sense of guilt, I imagine, for I, her good proselyte, feel it myself.
Going to Divisoria for the cheapest prices and buying elsewhere only at a bargain were regular feats of frugality for her. My own mom, coming under her tutorship as a 16-year-old daughter-in-law, did her better in some cases, unsurpassed at haggling in particular—she was our Tawad Queen.
She did it to the extent that made Dad so embarrassed he sided sometimes with the vendor: “Lita, the guy has got to make a profit, too, you know.” Perhaps to make up for all of Mom’s dubious feats, I myself have become a timid haggler, a fairer one, if you like.
At any rate, the greater guilt attacks when I’m tempted to buy on a whim. Even as I have entered that territory where there are no more needs to fill, only wants and preferences, Lola Enchay still won’t leave me alone, but I’m fighting.
The best for last
As a child, my eldest son, Rob, had the habit of eating his least favorite chocolates first and setting aside the best for last. On the other hand, my middle son, Vittorio, would consume his share fast and shamelessly beg his siblings for more, or simply take it at the first opportunity, as he did once when Rob wasn’t looking. Confronted, Vittorio replied: “Why weren’t you eating them? I thought you didn’t want them anymore.”
Like Rob, I hoarded my bottles of expensive perfume—reserving them for some special occasion, I suppose. They aged like wine on my dresser, and may have aged past their prime waiting for the occasion that always seemed more appropriate than the one that had arrived.
Even now, with my new mantra murmuring inside me, if not now, when else? I still agonize as I open those aged perfumes. I feel the same as I unwrap one from my collection of expensive soaps. I feel I’m myself surrendering to a nouveau riche predisposition.
I certainly don’t want to be like a friend who flaunted frugality, although he lived it, when we all knew how filthy rich his parents were. When both his parents died suddenly, in car crash, and their wealth avalanched on him, the miser was so overwhelmed he suffered in great anguish.
Now I have resolved to replenish my dresser with the best stuff my saved money can buy. Out of touch, I turn to my daughter, the connoisseur, my own makeup consultant, for my new look—the no-makeup look that is actually achieved by putting on all sorts of stuff.
We’ve set a lunch-cum-shopping date. It’s the dawn of moderate extravagance for me, but still, all in tingi, something that would fit into my short-term plans—I suppose it’s guilt attacking again.
As for clothes, my daughter thinks I’m too conservative. Anyway, I’m going unaided by her youthful inputs. I’m taking my husband along—he’s my fashion consultant; after all, he’s the one privy to my corporeal development—or growth, if you like.
Another consultant is 5-year-old Mona, whose eagerness to dress me up like her Barbie doll more than makes up for her years. Even more opinionated than anyone else, she knows exactly what to say, “No, Mamita, that makes you look like a grandma!”
I think I’m finally over my hang-up: Nouveau riche is okay at my age. There are travel brochures strewn all over our bed, and the murmurings are becoming increasingly melodious:
Hey, it’s what you saved for, silly!
