Whenever I notice little bruises from patting myself on the back too frequently and vigorously with my bulked up frugality muscles, I remember my pile of cashmere sweaters and calm down a little. Appropriately chastened, I then read the kinds of overwrought conceits such self-importance finds so charming (ahem, the first sentence written here, for example), and I shake my head and come down another peg or two.
It is true that I have eleven cashmere sweaters. It is difficult to make that sound like appropriate moderation. And I am writing about it now because I am already itching to buy one or two more this season. One in a rich rose color would be heavenly. Perfect for Gaudete Sunday.
Earlier today I was feeling very smug about my thriftiness. I think I will be able to keep my grocery budget to about fifty dollars for the month of August. I'll make such adorable little sacrifices: I won't buy orange juice. I'll do without pineapple. I'll only buy one piece of cheese. Oh! how hard it is and how stern I am with myself!
But I have also just bought three new tops (I must have work-appropriate clothing for the upcoming semester!), a new, much more professional work bag (a pre-graduation gift from my mother, who will pay for it), and more books than I can count (of course I need to own a copy of every book I will teach!). All my ostentatious "sacrificing" only subsidizes my immoderate consumption elsewhere.
None of which is to say I am so terribly naughty. I am more foolish sometimes than I would like to see. I am more attached to my things than I would like to admit. I live in far greater comfort than I tend to acknowledge.
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