When I go shopping, I see lots of people with shopping carts overflowing with stuff. I see myself several years ago, or actually not too long ago shopping at Sam’s Club.
Then I look into my cart. I had a 10-pack of Ivory soap, a gallon of milk, a plastic washtub, some drain cleaner and a bag of Timothy for the guinea pigs. I had picked up some mushrooms and some chocolate but put them back after some thought.
I really didn’t need the washtub, but the metal bowl I use to rinse my dishes in wasn’t very satisfying when the time comes to rinse larger items.
I found myself wandering the aisles just looking at the choices. Retractable clothes lines for seven dollars each when a 99-cent piece of cord would suffice. Chunks of wood packaged to stuff in your closet – when the spruce tree you had for Christmas could have been cut up and used to scent your closet just as well.
Boxes made out of fabric covered cardboard–the type of craft I’ve tinkered with since I was a kid–but my boxes said Eggs on the side!
I could go on but there is no real point.
I felt like an outsider watching a strange ritual today as I wandered around the store. I passed people debating on clothes and cleaning supplies alike, cringing because I feel like I’m carrying a deep dark secret.
The few people I have told about this – most think I’m crazy. I told one friend about making laundry soap and was scolded for not telling him I needed money to buy laundry detergent.
I feel lonely as a result of my frugality. Friends shake their heads because I sold my queen-sized bed when I moved here and now sleep on a small cot in an even smaller room. Instead of a couch we have a rattan loveseat–the dog is the only one who uses it so why waste money on a couch?
Somehow it is all okay however. I am marching to the beat of my own personal drummer. I am not going to give in like I have in the past and follow my spendthrift friends.
I hope not, anyway.