Did my last post make me look like an elitist schmuck?
Did I suggest that one ought to spend money on horses, good beer, and fine cheese, rather than fritter it away at Kohl's or Shopko, like the woman in my portrait of consumer's remorse?
That wasn't what I meant, though it may be what I wrote.
What I've been thinking about over the past many weeks, and what I've been trying to write about and examine in my own life, is the habit of throwing money at unhappiness and ennui and you-name-the-problem.
I have often used money instead of creativity, or the resources at hand, to address a host of dilemmas and sour moods.
I did not mean to point a finger in judgment at some beleaguered every-woman leaving a department store, as if to say, Look how pathetic she is. She ought to be spending money on a gym club membership. She ought to get out there and jog every morning before the kids wake up.
What I meant was that I am that woman and I have been that woman, and I don't want to be that woman anymore.
That is what I look like when I leave a department store after having drifted around it in a trance for far too long, looking for that elusive thing that will boost my morale and give me the confidence I need to face another day.
It is that thing that I think I cannot live without that I cannot find.
What should I do, instead? Should I meditate? Should I jog? Should I pursue a pinterest?
Is it a class issue?
Are the things that can make a real difference to one's happiness intrinsically expensive?
Or just intrinsically elusive?
Or just not at Kohls or Shopko?
To be continued.