By Carrie Classon
I am quick to criticize other people’s luxuries. “Buying a latte every day?” I say. “What a waste!”
But, of course, I have Peter making me coffee, and I can have it exactly the way I like it. (Lots of milk, not too much coffee.)
I think sailboats and horses are crazy expensive, but campers and RVs make sense—because that’s what I grew up with.
“Economics don’t count when you are talking about campers!” my father has repeatedly told me. My father is a frugal man. He lives simply and has no luxurious habits. But he has a very nice RV, and he has traded it in several times for slightly nicer models.
“This is the last one we will buy,” he tells me, in a voice that makes it sound as if he means it. But then my parents see a new model that has some really nice features, and…
My husband, Peter, started flying business class when he turned 70. He said it was his gift to himself when he went on Social Security. He claims that shopping around as he does, he pays only a little more for business than he would for coach.
I am not yet 70, so I don’t know that I deserve this special treatment, but I confess I’ve gotten used to being able to go into the club between flights and getting a free cup of coffee exactly the way I like it. (Lots of milk, not too much coffee.) Peter stretches out his long legs and enjoys every minute of it.
I cannot believe how much people spend on new clothes, and I buy all my clothes used. But I don’t want to tell you how many dresses I own—and I can’t, because I have no idea. I have far more dresses than any one person can reasonably wear.
But just when I say I need to stop buying dresses, I see a sleeveless burgundy dress with a swathe of velvet down the front and an asymmetrical hemline for less than $30 (used, of course!) and the next thing I know, I’m having it shipped to my sister’s house while I am in Mexico because, well, I cannot let it go.
And every week, I buy flowers for my desk. I could buy quite a few lattes with what I spend on the fresh flowers that sit on my desk. I justify the expense by saying that, as I sit here all day writing, I need something pleasant to rest my eyes on between sentences. I say it’s something I need—and that is how all our luxuries are, I expect.
I know I am unfair to the people who need to go sailing and ride horses. I am unfair to the people whose day only starts out right when they have a pleasant professional prepare them a latte. (Although I still say Peter’s is every bit as good, and just the way I like it—lots of milk and not too much coffee.)
I know there are people who would say having a closet full of dresses (however beautiful and deeply discounted) is ridiculous and buying fresh flowers is wasteful. I would say they are being unreasonable. But I suspect we are all a little unsympathetic to what others perceive as a need.
We all need a few luxuries, big or small, to make us feel we are treating ourselves well. I am going to try to enjoy my little luxuries without too much guilt—and allow everyone else to enjoy theirs.