I think I have to be one of the only people, other than members of clergy, who actually appreciates what the Great Recession has done for society as a whole. Sure you’ll hear stories of the laid off Goldman Sachs analyst who took her severance package and went to Tibet with a backpack on her back and a desire to de-worm orphans in her heart. Or the countless secular friends of ours whose love of Judaism/Christianity/Hinduism/Buddhism has an indirect relationship with the Dow Jones Industrial Average, and has taken them from grooving to Matisyahu at Webster Hall or taking a yoga class Pure Yoga to studying in Israel with Chabad and/or doing Sun Salutations in Mysore.
You may be asking yourself as you’re reading this why I’m bringing up this paradigm shift that has occurred with my over indulged cohort. Has my two year writing hiatus given me a Pollyanna perspective on life? Where my evolved sense of being and purpose now includes beliefs such as “despite all things, people are truly good at heart?” Sadly, no. I’m trying to set up how incredibly shallow I still am. And how, for once in my life I could actually acknowledge the shadenfreude that exists in the deep chambers of my heart. I have been loving the Great Recession because it has provided the absolute perfect excuse to be a recluse.
“Shandoll, come out for drinks tonight!”
“Shandoll, let’s go shopping!”
“Shandoll, want to go on vacation together?”
“Shandoll, can you be a bridesmaid?!”
No. No. No. And heeeellllssss no!
Instead of having to deal with accusations of being cheap, anti-social, and reclusive in my newfound sobriety, I’ve been called “prudent” “smart” “cautious” and my favorite, “brave.”
See, for the past two years I haven’t left my apartment except to go to work, classes, grocery shopping and occasionally Boot Camp because “I need to sock away every penny in case I lose my job” “I just survived another round of layoffs” “I’m doing the work of three people now- I don’t have time to see you”
No more crazy parties paid by publishers where my friends could crash and mooch off free booze, no more liberal T&E accounts where massages just got the party started, no more expensive restaurants to celebrate birthdays with 50 of your closet friends and bottle service. The day the stock market crashed in 20008, really was the day that we all began to drink whisky and rye and sing “this’ll be the day that I die.” And it was great! It was great because I wasn’t the only one who broke off social engagements—everyone did, leviathan corporations down to the nerdy NYU kids on daddy’s trust fund in the LES to Craigslist one night stands being busted for solicitation charges.
Hey, a gal’s gotta make a buck somehow.
The world was broke and glum, and it was wonderful for me! It was finally chic to be uncool and cheap. The manolo purchases declined, the trips abroad were curtailed and I spent the last twenty four months ordering in wine from the liquor store around the corner and making it a Blockbuster night. Oh yes, and getting laid on a regular basis. And birthcontrol is the most cost efficient option, btw.
Boyfriend is pawing at me right now, so I must go. So no pithy succinct perfectly wrapped ending for you this evening.
Perhaps tomorrow.
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