Revenge Spend

Revenge spending is really a thing. I can’t fucking stop it. I have fallen off that wagon straight down the slide to the depths of perdition. It’s never the small stuff. You’ll have to take a pry-bar to wedge that fiver out of my cold dead hand, but the big stuff??

I. Am. All. In.

Drives Russ crazy. He will eat out for lunch everyday and not think twice, but will start sweating at the mere mention of Switzerland. Not that this is bad. We rein in each other’s proclivities for spending, a team of checks and balances under one roof. Reconciliation of ledgers doesn’t always comes easy, but it’s the messy process of finding consensus is what counts.

These last two weeks I’ve purchased my fall writing classes, a quartet, one business class, and one ticket to Hamiltonon Broadway. It’s been twenty-one months since the last show I saw in New York (Beetlejuice, but Hamilton was the day before that!). 

I’m not crying!  

You’re crying!

It might qualify as a problem, an addiction, when I transfer my credit card balance to another, with the recent offer of zero a.p.r. for the next twelve months. It was like a sign from above. God granted me permission. 

It’s alright, my child. Go forth.

So I did. All of last year’s savings, sitting on the couch at home, are flying out the window. I haven’t reined it in quite yet either. (Soon though. The funds are near extinction). Just a few more tickets on the horizon, before 2022 swerves into the station or another shutdown occurs—whichever happens first. 

DC is still only partially opened. The museums are either closed, or on timed tickets, you have to apply for a month in advance. This is only slightly more accomodating than our DMV, which opens at the end of this month, after a whopping seventeen months shuttered. (Weirdly, I feel like the mother of a toddler talking about all of these things in monthly increments.)

I will finally have the ability to register Dad’s car, and the rents can stop being blindsided by the toll infractions appearing in their mailbox. They know exactly where I’ve been by the paper trail, like a bad report card with a teacher’s note attached, after swearing to them school has been going great all semester. Flying under the radar as a teenager these days must be much more difficult.

With the museums closed, I had to get creative with my sister visiting last week. Where would we go? I decided on Union Market first, because I thought she’d like it (she did), and then, because it was so bloody hot, we trekked to Roosevelt Island for a shaded walk. It is home to the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial, and because it’s off the beaten path, it is often overlooked. My friend calls it Chernobyl. You’re surrounded by leafy forest, floating in the middle of the Potomac, only to walk into a massive, bleached memorial you don’t see coming until you are already there. Every time I stumble upon it, I picture a team in hazmat suits scrubbing the marble like the nuclear reactor sprung a leak. It is odd, yet compelling.

We were plastered with sweat despite the shade, but decided to forge ahead to the FDR Memorial around the Tidal Basin, also home to the MLK Memorial. Franklin is my favourite memorial in DC, hidden by the trees and its composite of dark granite. I find the space serene, often taking the long walk there from home, its peace and tranquility drawing me there like smoke. Tourists often don’t make it to the other side of the reservoir, turning around at Jefferson, but both FDR and MLK are worth the trip to see them.

My sister had a different sort of visit to DC, seeing sights and sections of town she wouldn’t normally see on a visit. It was hot and humid walking all of those places under the blazing sun, but as she said, “You’re lucky I live in Houston and not Montana.” She was used to the stifling oppressiveness. The day ended with dinner and a martini at Le Diplomat, followed by Jeni’s. The next time I see my sister will be in New York City later this summer. Is it luck or misfortune Broadway won’t be open yet? I’m not sure, but I’m viewing it as a well-placed tourniquet for the severed artery in my wallet. Something has to slow the bleeding. It should be the depletion of funds, but I’ve delayed the inevitable with a balance transfer. I’ve taken revenge spending to a whole new level. I’ve joined the countless ranks of other Americans who enjoy it now and pay for it later. 

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