Penelope will be out-of-the office from August 20, 2010 to August 30, 2011.
Maybe it started with an innocent typo that threw everyone off and made us forever paranoid about implementing an automatic out-of-the-office email reply. It’s unclear why but, somewhere along the way, the automatic out-of-the-office reply fell into disfavor in corporate America.
I suspect it derives from a sense of class consciousness—everyone knows that only functionaries use the out-of-office reply message. Those with seriously important jobs cannot afford the luxury of absence and would never be so gauche as to announce their absence in such a forthright manner. But still, why did it become obsolete?
On the one hand, a client should know we are unavailable so that the lack of an immediate response is not misconstrued as a brush off. On the other hand, consider the horrors that an out-of-office message can spawn.
For obvious reasons, an out-of-office message suggests that you’re not there. Not being there can really be a problem in a service profession. It signals an interruption in service.
In the corporate world*, “serving” requires a reversion to serfdom whereby telling your vassal that you are unavailable is an option considered only in contemplation of death. By definition, “service” means that a family member’s birthday or an anniversary takes back seat to your master’s moods and professional aspirations.
And what if you forget to tell each and every client that you won’t be there. There’s never a good time to explain to the client that, at the end of the day, your personal life really is more important than what your client believes, once again, to be the most pivotal moment in their career and in your service provider-client relationship. It’s awkward to work that into a conference call, no? Yet, alerting them in advance is preferable to their being surprised by an abrupt two line message that you’re abandoning them for five consecutive business days.
Perhaps the greatest fear that dissuades a corporate person to shun the out-of-office message is a fear of poaching. In your absence, the client may seek out advice from a colleague, encouraging a colleague to encroach on the territory you’ve been grooming to generate more business that will in turn be attributed to you and not to your predatory colleague. Better to secure your territory than let wild animals roam free in your absence.
Faced with the horrors described above, nowadays many will feign presence rather than publicly concede absence (the corporate term for vacation) with an automatic out-of-office email reply. Rather than confess the need for a personal life (which, to have, already suggests a certain lack of professional dedication), they fake their presence with the help of technology.
Calls are taken remotely, in an effort to suggest to clients that you’re not on vacation but simply calling “from the road” during a business trip* or ripping yourself away from a meeting out of the office. Laptops enable us to log on and deliver excel spreadsheets, powerpoints, and other token symbols of corporate productivity.
Hand in hand with the feigning presence strategy is the failure to announce a vacation in advance to our colleagues. Vacation days are kept on the down low with perhaps a covert email sent only to an assistant indicating that although you will be out of the office, no one is to know this, including colleagues.
This helps perpetuate the fiction that no vacation is occurring. If there was no pre-vacation announcement and you managed to respond to clients reasonably promptly, then in the eyes of the corporate world no vacation has occurred and your Protestant work ethic remains unsullied.
Today, we’re never out of the office. Instead we circumnavigate the office, via cell, Blackberry, fax or text. Unfortunately, if we’re never out of the office that means we’re never really anywhere else either. So when we’re in Bali vacationing with a significant other, chances are we’re not enjoying the sunset but instead scheming of ways to sneak into an unoccupied room and have a torrid threesome with a cell phone and Blackberry (if you must, use protection and close the door).
A word of caution to those who fake their presence from afar though. Naïve is the client who does not notice a change in your communicational pattern—the lengthy and thorough emails suddenly supplanted by truncated messages delivered in a different font at unusual hours. You’re deluding yourself that you can be just as professionally “present” by Blackberry while sitting on a beach.
Despite the success of the “Be Present”* clothing line that has accomplished great notoriety among yoga circles in America, fewer and fewer of us are present anywhere anymore.
Notes
*Clearly the quandary of whether to enable the out-of-office reply is not unique to America. The crisis and the debate have reached international dimensions as well. See “Out-of the-office reply: got the message,” Financial Times, http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/17e32334-69e5-11df-a978-00144feab49a.html
*Although business trips have become anachronistic for many of us, there are still some pockets of civilization that see value in meeting a client face-to-face and having a live discussion. There’s also the amusement of snickering at how your client dresses when you meet them in person.
*Be Present is a clothing line especially designed for Yoga that has achieve great commercial success in recent years.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
The Changing of the Guard
Witnessing a generational shift can be inspiring. But, if you’re part of the generation that’s being shifted or superseded and new stars are beginning to outshine you, then it can also be stressful.
As I slurped up my soup today at lunch (which, with the saltines and soda, came to $1.90, just within my new lunch budget) I reviewed the events of the last two weeks. I’ve been a bystander to all sorts of epic changes yet realized it only once I found myself in the contemplative company of some chicken noodle soup.
Although most of these cataclysmic shifts occurred right at my own golf club, the ramifications are in no way localized to a Westchester country club.
When I reached the 16th hole at my golf club last Sunday, I surveyed the Hudson River for the usual assortment of sail boats. I saw an unusually shaped barge floating towards NYC that I almost mistook for an aircraft carrier, until I realized that aircraft carriers rarely cruise up the Hudson. Only days later did I learn that the barge was carrying a new bridge, one that would replace the existing Willis Avenue bridge, in what journalists described as an “insta bridge” event. Out with the old and in with the new, all in one day.
Little did I know that at the same time I was trying to make sense of the aircraft carrier on the river, the pillars of my society were foundering. Tiger Woods was at that moment finishing 18 over, a career worst. More importantly, however, a younger couple defeated one of the most senior and celebrated golf couples at our club.
When you live in the present, it’s always too early to tell whether you're living a one-off aberrant incident or you’re witnessing history. I may not remember any of the details in 5 years but I'll remember that it happened. I’ll remember that there was a weekend—a moment—when it all crystallized and we knew were witnessing a changing of the guard—the new Willis Avenue Bridge replacing the old, Tiger’s plummeting status in the world golf arena, and the crowning of new husband-wife champions at my club.
This younger couple will become the new inspiration of the annual husband-wife championship (as well as undoubtedly other golf tournaments) with their names etched in wood in the grill room for generations to admire and emulate.
And maybe 20 years from now, having seen these names engraved often enough to incite envy, their own children and their children’s contemporaries will be gunning for it—first hoping, just once, to be listed alongside their idols* and then once listed, eventually gaining enough confidence and generating enough of a track record to erase those records altogether and replace them with their own.
As I scraped up the remains of my soup and transitioned to dessert (saltines, yum), I realized that my contemporaries and I are already at an age when we’re beginning to develop legacies.
All of this left me curious about how society at large might see my history to date, my nascent legacy. So, like the accomplished narcissist that I am, I Googled myself (don't pretend you haven’t done it).
1st Hit: my position at my law firm. Yawn.
2nd-4th Hits: articles I’ve written about the hedge fund industry. Double yawn.
5th Hit: A testament to my paltry support of The Morgan Library and some random Democrats. Proof that I’m not exactly a financial powerhouse.
6th Hit: A reference to being Ivy League Player of the Year, which would almost be impressive were it not for the fact that the sport was gymnastics and everyone knows that college gymnastics is hardly as competitive as what occurs pre-college. I had a foot in the gymnast’s grave and was competing against other athletes well past their prime. Big deal.
As I looked at the hits, I knew that this was not the stuff of legacies—these were more like accidental appearances in the game called life. I don’t know what my legacy will be yet but even single people have legacies, whether they like it or not. I suspect creating some form of legacy will involve less time drinking and arm wrestling* in the grill room and more time being productive, like chipping and putting.
Notes
*Although I am told there are few moments as joyful in the parenting process as when a child excels beyond a parent, I'm not convinced my fragile golf ego could handle the experience.
*Despite having started doing push-ups in earnest a year ago, I was defeated almost immediately.
As I slurped up my soup today at lunch (which, with the saltines and soda, came to $1.90, just within my new lunch budget) I reviewed the events of the last two weeks. I’ve been a bystander to all sorts of epic changes yet realized it only once I found myself in the contemplative company of some chicken noodle soup.
Although most of these cataclysmic shifts occurred right at my own golf club, the ramifications are in no way localized to a Westchester country club.
When I reached the 16th hole at my golf club last Sunday, I surveyed the Hudson River for the usual assortment of sail boats. I saw an unusually shaped barge floating towards NYC that I almost mistook for an aircraft carrier, until I realized that aircraft carriers rarely cruise up the Hudson. Only days later did I learn that the barge was carrying a new bridge, one that would replace the existing Willis Avenue bridge, in what journalists described as an “insta bridge” event. Out with the old and in with the new, all in one day.
Little did I know that at the same time I was trying to make sense of the aircraft carrier on the river, the pillars of my society were foundering. Tiger Woods was at that moment finishing 18 over, a career worst. More importantly, however, a younger couple defeated one of the most senior and celebrated golf couples at our club.
When you live in the present, it’s always too early to tell whether you're living a one-off aberrant incident or you’re witnessing history. I may not remember any of the details in 5 years but I'll remember that it happened. I’ll remember that there was a weekend—a moment—when it all crystallized and we knew were witnessing a changing of the guard—the new Willis Avenue Bridge replacing the old, Tiger’s plummeting status in the world golf arena, and the crowning of new husband-wife champions at my club.
This younger couple will become the new inspiration of the annual husband-wife championship (as well as undoubtedly other golf tournaments) with their names etched in wood in the grill room for generations to admire and emulate.
And maybe 20 years from now, having seen these names engraved often enough to incite envy, their own children and their children’s contemporaries will be gunning for it—first hoping, just once, to be listed alongside their idols* and then once listed, eventually gaining enough confidence and generating enough of a track record to erase those records altogether and replace them with their own.
As I scraped up the remains of my soup and transitioned to dessert (saltines, yum), I realized that my contemporaries and I are already at an age when we’re beginning to develop legacies.
All of this left me curious about how society at large might see my history to date, my nascent legacy. So, like the accomplished narcissist that I am, I Googled myself (don't pretend you haven’t done it).
1st Hit: my position at my law firm. Yawn.
2nd-4th Hits: articles I’ve written about the hedge fund industry. Double yawn.
5th Hit: A testament to my paltry support of The Morgan Library and some random Democrats. Proof that I’m not exactly a financial powerhouse.
6th Hit: A reference to being Ivy League Player of the Year, which would almost be impressive were it not for the fact that the sport was gymnastics and everyone knows that college gymnastics is hardly as competitive as what occurs pre-college. I had a foot in the gymnast’s grave and was competing against other athletes well past their prime. Big deal.
As I looked at the hits, I knew that this was not the stuff of legacies—these were more like accidental appearances in the game called life. I don’t know what my legacy will be yet but even single people have legacies, whether they like it or not. I suspect creating some form of legacy will involve less time drinking and arm wrestling* in the grill room and more time being productive, like chipping and putting.
Notes
*Although I am told there are few moments as joyful in the parenting process as when a child excels beyond a parent, I'm not convinced my fragile golf ego could handle the experience.
*Despite having started doing push-ups in earnest a year ago, I was defeated almost immediately.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Penelope's Dating Guide for Grown Ups
The advice that follows below emerges from a series of conversations with women who forgot to meet a significant other when they were younger and remain chronically single.
Lest you doubt Penelope’s expertise on, and understanding of, prolonged singlehood, I provide a brief outline of her credentials:
Few people are as good at spending time alone as Penelope. If there were a handicap system for solitude (as there is for golf), Penelope would be a scratch loner. And that’s why it phases me only occasionally that I have spent the last 15 years largely alone. Not lonely, but alone, single, unmarried and whatever other boxes I have to check on tax returns, doctors’ forms, etc.
Being single means my schedule is very easily adjusted. I don't want to get up early on Saturday? Decision-made—I sleep. I can change my mind about what I’m going to eat for dinner seven times and it generates no friction—no one cares how many times I change my mind about these things.
Being single means I’m a better listener than a speaker, because I go to cafes by myself and I eavesdrop.
Being single means I am subjected to less small talk at work. You see, there are fewer safe topics when you are single and work in an environment where you are meant to have grown a spouse at least 10 years ago (if, for no other reason, than to make corporate America easier to run with obvious targets of small talk and networking connections, like kids and schools).
Being single means I haven’t had a proper boyfriend in 15 years, although I will admit to some highly inappropriate situations that I tried stubbornly to fit into the “boyfriend” category, like an obstinate child slamming the circular peg into the square hole insisting the circular peg can be transformed through sheer will.
At this age, boyfriends do not arrive in the neat and tidy packages they used to show up in, with a youthful smile, a promising job and future, and only one ex-girlfriend who was “great” but just came along too soon. Instead, they usually show up bald, with children, ex-spouse(s), maybe even current spouses, addictions, doubts, and even criminal records.
This is why Penelope believes it critical to offer guidance for NYC women who forgot to meet someone when they were young and naïve. Maybe you were too busy climbing a corporate ladder. Maybe it took you 15+ years to heal a wounded heart. Maybe you thought the proper ordering of a life was to try to become president first and THEN find a significant other. Whatever your story, following is some NYC-based advice for women “of a certain age.”
· The Kind Advice of Others. Unless he or she got married in the last 3 years, do NOT listen to the well-intentioned advice of married friends. Chances are they met their spouses/significant others 10+ years ago and any advice they have is just plain stale. Meeting someone at 25 has little to nothing to do with meeting someone when you’re 40+.
Example: A girlfriend told me that if I meet a guy I should pretend he’s the only guy for whom I’ve ever had romantic feelings. Sorry, but if you’re 40 and you tell a guy that, he's going to assume that either you’re a convicted felon who’s just completed a lengthy prison sentence or that you’re an unusually damaged catholic who has been fighting an urge to join a convent the last two decades. He won’t walk away, he will run, very fast (even if his hips have been replaced already).
· Nothing Has Changed. It seems like everything has changed at this point, your waist included. However, nothing has changed. Men are still men and women are still women. Many of the Men Are From Mars principles still apply. He’s probably still a hunter and you, still a gatherer. This may seem inconsistent with the point immediately above—embrace the contradiction.
· Be flexible. After 10+ years of solitude, even an ex-gymnast like Penelope can be inflexible. You’ve probably developed some laudable lifestyles, like daily yoga, no eating after 10pm and no more than two drinks. Be a little flexible, go out and get tipsy one night rather than spending extra time at the gym. He would probably prefer to spend that time with you rather than you spending it fine-tuning your washboard abs. If you’re still hanging out with him in three years, he’ll probably be encouraging you to spend more time hanging on to the remnants of your six pack, so enjoy the time with him now
· Let Him Pay for Dinner. Unless you’re 21 (in which case, why are you reading this?) and he’s a 45+ year old business man, chances are he’s not trying to subjugate you by paying for dinner. He’s trying to be a gentleman, whatever that means in this day and age. Mind you, I said “let him pay,” not “make him pay,” or judge him for not paying. Make a polite gesture to get your wallet from your purse. And if he calls your bluff and let’s you pay, fergodsakes you better have your wallet with you.
· Talking About Money. This is a tough topic and should be approached with great caution. Maybe it was easier 20 years ago when neither of you had any. Or maybe you’re a trust fund brat (TFB) so you knew that until you had 15 years of therapy under your belt, the topic would be off-limits. Money can be deeply symbolic in different ways for different people so tread lightly. Try not to be visibly disappointed when you learn he has no private jet—that just smacks of gold digging. And if you suspect you earn more than he does, don’t insist on paying for everything, unless your real goal is to castrate him.
· Put Snarky Girl Away. It was with pride that I once joined an online chat group called “I speak sarcasm fluently”. Yet, a constant barrage of acerbic wit and well crafted sarcasm, while welcomed in a bar of male colleagues, probably won’t win you many points if you meet a real keeper. It has no doubt behooved you in the workplace to toughen up and show some moxie, but this is not the place to show how tough you are.
· Getting Good At It. At this point you’ve probably been working a while or, if you’re a TFB, you’ve gotten better at working a room or speaking at benefits. In other words, at this point you’ve gotten used to being good at something. Dating is not something one gets “good at” (notable exceptions include Elizabeth Taylor). The goal is not to become an expert but to get good enough to get lucky (no, not that kind of lucky—that’s called “hooking up”)—lucky enough to get to know someone with whom you could spend a meaningful chunk of your life.
This is just the beginning of a multi-part series that Penelope expects to publish over the coming months. Penelope urges you to write in with your comments and questions, either by email (penelope.frost@yahoo.com), on Facebook or on her blog (http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com).
Px
Lest you doubt Penelope’s expertise on, and understanding of, prolonged singlehood, I provide a brief outline of her credentials:
Few people are as good at spending time alone as Penelope. If there were a handicap system for solitude (as there is for golf), Penelope would be a scratch loner. And that’s why it phases me only occasionally that I have spent the last 15 years largely alone. Not lonely, but alone, single, unmarried and whatever other boxes I have to check on tax returns, doctors’ forms, etc.
Being single means my schedule is very easily adjusted. I don't want to get up early on Saturday? Decision-made—I sleep. I can change my mind about what I’m going to eat for dinner seven times and it generates no friction—no one cares how many times I change my mind about these things.
Being single means I’m a better listener than a speaker, because I go to cafes by myself and I eavesdrop.
Being single means I am subjected to less small talk at work. You see, there are fewer safe topics when you are single and work in an environment where you are meant to have grown a spouse at least 10 years ago (if, for no other reason, than to make corporate America easier to run with obvious targets of small talk and networking connections, like kids and schools).
Being single means I haven’t had a proper boyfriend in 15 years, although I will admit to some highly inappropriate situations that I tried stubbornly to fit into the “boyfriend” category, like an obstinate child slamming the circular peg into the square hole insisting the circular peg can be transformed through sheer will.
At this age, boyfriends do not arrive in the neat and tidy packages they used to show up in, with a youthful smile, a promising job and future, and only one ex-girlfriend who was “great” but just came along too soon. Instead, they usually show up bald, with children, ex-spouse(s), maybe even current spouses, addictions, doubts, and even criminal records.
This is why Penelope believes it critical to offer guidance for NYC women who forgot to meet someone when they were young and naïve. Maybe you were too busy climbing a corporate ladder. Maybe it took you 15+ years to heal a wounded heart. Maybe you thought the proper ordering of a life was to try to become president first and THEN find a significant other. Whatever your story, following is some NYC-based advice for women “of a certain age.”
· The Kind Advice of Others. Unless he or she got married in the last 3 years, do NOT listen to the well-intentioned advice of married friends. Chances are they met their spouses/significant others 10+ years ago and any advice they have is just plain stale. Meeting someone at 25 has little to nothing to do with meeting someone when you’re 40+.
Example: A girlfriend told me that if I meet a guy I should pretend he’s the only guy for whom I’ve ever had romantic feelings. Sorry, but if you’re 40 and you tell a guy that, he's going to assume that either you’re a convicted felon who’s just completed a lengthy prison sentence or that you’re an unusually damaged catholic who has been fighting an urge to join a convent the last two decades. He won’t walk away, he will run, very fast (even if his hips have been replaced already).
· Nothing Has Changed. It seems like everything has changed at this point, your waist included. However, nothing has changed. Men are still men and women are still women. Many of the Men Are From Mars principles still apply. He’s probably still a hunter and you, still a gatherer. This may seem inconsistent with the point immediately above—embrace the contradiction.
· Be flexible. After 10+ years of solitude, even an ex-gymnast like Penelope can be inflexible. You’ve probably developed some laudable lifestyles, like daily yoga, no eating after 10pm and no more than two drinks. Be a little flexible, go out and get tipsy one night rather than spending extra time at the gym. He would probably prefer to spend that time with you rather than you spending it fine-tuning your washboard abs. If you’re still hanging out with him in three years, he’ll probably be encouraging you to spend more time hanging on to the remnants of your six pack, so enjoy the time with him now
· Let Him Pay for Dinner. Unless you’re 21 (in which case, why are you reading this?) and he’s a 45+ year old business man, chances are he’s not trying to subjugate you by paying for dinner. He’s trying to be a gentleman, whatever that means in this day and age. Mind you, I said “let him pay,” not “make him pay,” or judge him for not paying. Make a polite gesture to get your wallet from your purse. And if he calls your bluff and let’s you pay, fergodsakes you better have your wallet with you.
· Talking About Money. This is a tough topic and should be approached with great caution. Maybe it was easier 20 years ago when neither of you had any. Or maybe you’re a trust fund brat (TFB) so you knew that until you had 15 years of therapy under your belt, the topic would be off-limits. Money can be deeply symbolic in different ways for different people so tread lightly. Try not to be visibly disappointed when you learn he has no private jet—that just smacks of gold digging. And if you suspect you earn more than he does, don’t insist on paying for everything, unless your real goal is to castrate him.
· Put Snarky Girl Away. It was with pride that I once joined an online chat group called “I speak sarcasm fluently”. Yet, a constant barrage of acerbic wit and well crafted sarcasm, while welcomed in a bar of male colleagues, probably won’t win you many points if you meet a real keeper. It has no doubt behooved you in the workplace to toughen up and show some moxie, but this is not the place to show how tough you are.
· Getting Good At It. At this point you’ve probably been working a while or, if you’re a TFB, you’ve gotten better at working a room or speaking at benefits. In other words, at this point you’ve gotten used to being good at something. Dating is not something one gets “good at” (notable exceptions include Elizabeth Taylor). The goal is not to become an expert but to get good enough to get lucky (no, not that kind of lucky—that’s called “hooking up”)—lucky enough to get to know someone with whom you could spend a meaningful chunk of your life.
This is just the beginning of a multi-part series that Penelope expects to publish over the coming months. Penelope urges you to write in with your comments and questions, either by email (penelope.frost@yahoo.com), on Facebook or on her blog (http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com).
Px
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Confessions of a Financial Bulimic
I was first diagnosed with financial bulimia as a college freshman in 1985.
I had just been given my first checking account. As soon as my parents deposited the initial sum in my account, I knew I would have to change my ways. I needed to protect this modest amount from the financial threats of extravagance and waste. So I abandoned my daily post-study ritual of buying a 3 cent piece of Bazooka bubble gum. Already, I felt more in control of my spending.
I then bought one of my first adult cocktail dresses for $250 (not an inconsiderable sum for a party dress in the mid ‘80s). I had sacrificed my afternoon bubble gum so surely I had earned the cocktail dress—even if this wasn’t a perfect dollar-for-dollar offset.
Some of my loyal readers will recognize these same behavioral patterns in the pages of the Lunch Report. The Lunch Report began as a testament to Penelope’s ability to lunch on no more than $3 a day (measured on a strict per diem basis, and not cumulatively).
Penelope is prone to sitting at her desk savoring saltines while reflecting on the injustices inflicted on single women in corporate America.* But Penelope is also prone to spending a weekend at The Breakers in Palm Beach, as she stoically battles the winter blues on some of Florida’s best golf courses (while, of course, pilfering hotel shampoo).*
But let’s go back again so we can understand the origins of her financial disorder. By 1990, Penelope had learned to live in the south of France on a weekly food budget of 60FF (pre-Euro, about $10). Every scrap of food was maximized for value and usage: stale bread dutifully dipped in oil, sautéed and consumed. Cheese rinds never discarded but also fried and eaten and grocery store samples scarfed down obligatorily as amuse-bouches.
When I moved back to NYC in 1992, I resisted this city's hallmark indulgence: ordering in dinner. Instead, I continued my discipline of making my own dinner. I did loosen the purse strings slightly, however, and let myself add a half glass of wine from a bottle whose cost never exceeded $7.
Shortly thereafter, the parade of excuses marched in, stomping all over my Calvinist budget. I developed increasingly fanciful rationalizations for spending: “you're only young once, go out and live it up” and “hey, if you want to meet someone, you gotta travel, do a Hamptons share, and buy some new clothes.”
And, the ultimate excuse: “you know you get more work done in cafés than at home, so why not take your documents out for dinner, every night.”
And so, I evolved from one of the most financially disciplined creatures in NYC to a full blown financial bulimic. Living in NYC made it easy to hide my disease. After all, NYC is inhabited primarily by financial enablers—those dedicated to encouraging you to spend $ you don't have (friends convincing you “you deserve it” and banks issuing easy credit)—and their co-conspirators, the financial predators—those who actually extract the $, restaurants, shops, etc. NYC would not be what it is were it not for the evolutionary force of these two breeds.
As I struggled to understand my nefarious urges, I found myself flipping through the pages of Money, A Memoir: Women, Emotions and Cash, which explores the complex emotional relationship between modern women and money--their own and others’.* What did money represent to me anyway? Financial or emotional security?
By 2000, having failed in my quest for a sugar daddy, I learned to become my own sugar mama. In December, with great longing, a girlfriend and I watched doting husbands stand on line at Tiffany’s eager to bejewel their wives for Christmas. It then dawned on us that we could buy our own jewelry. And so we did. We each bought a pair of pearl earrings with a tasteful sprinkling of diamonds.
Recently, I reread Money, A Memoir. As interesting a reread as it was, I realized the book mischaracterized the subject as a gender issue and, in so doing, trivialized centuries of male pride, ambivalence and embarrassment associated with earning and spending money.
Understanding the rapport between money and emotions has universal appeal but may be all the more difficult to fathom in the capital of materiality, NYC. As I sift through nearly two decades of anecdotes, the men stand out as much as the women:
•The senior Morgan Stanley managing director who refused to eat in any restaurant where the cutlery has already been placed on the table because that meant the price of an entree would be too high. Yet he offered to buy me a new winter coat one night rather than wait on a lengthy coat check line.
•The senior partner at a very white shoe firm who saved the miniature gins and vodkas from every business flight he took so he could populate the bars in his 5 homes with these mini-tributes to his frugality.
•The jobless girlfriend who fretted continuously over her financial security, yet found fast solace in a $600 Botox treatment.
Why do we do these things? As I've learned, we all suffer from varying degrees of a financial consumption disorder. So, don't be ashamed. You're part of a well known financially bulimic demographic. The rest of us are here to support and sympathize with you, so write in and share your stories of financial excess and economic ambivalence.
Editorial Staff Note: Shortly before publication, Penelope suffered a relapse and bought a sweater because her office was over air-conditioned. She will be implementing a strict $2 limit on lunch until the excess amount spent on the sweater has been recouped. Please send food donations to The Lunch Report, P.O Box 777, NY, NY, 10021 and they will be redirected accordingly.
Notes
*“Eating Single in America,”
http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com/2010/03/eating-single-in-america.html
*“Lunch at The Breakers, Recession-Style,” http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com/2009/12/lunch-report-lunch-at-breakers.html.
“Correction and Addendum”
http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com/2009/12/lunch-report-correction-and-addendum-to.html
*Money, A Memoir: Women, Emotions and Cash, Liz Perle (Picador, December 2006).
I had just been given my first checking account. As soon as my parents deposited the initial sum in my account, I knew I would have to change my ways. I needed to protect this modest amount from the financial threats of extravagance and waste. So I abandoned my daily post-study ritual of buying a 3 cent piece of Bazooka bubble gum. Already, I felt more in control of my spending.
I then bought one of my first adult cocktail dresses for $250 (not an inconsiderable sum for a party dress in the mid ‘80s). I had sacrificed my afternoon bubble gum so surely I had earned the cocktail dress—even if this wasn’t a perfect dollar-for-dollar offset.
Some of my loyal readers will recognize these same behavioral patterns in the pages of the Lunch Report. The Lunch Report began as a testament to Penelope’s ability to lunch on no more than $3 a day (measured on a strict per diem basis, and not cumulatively).
Penelope is prone to sitting at her desk savoring saltines while reflecting on the injustices inflicted on single women in corporate America.* But Penelope is also prone to spending a weekend at The Breakers in Palm Beach, as she stoically battles the winter blues on some of Florida’s best golf courses (while, of course, pilfering hotel shampoo).*
But let’s go back again so we can understand the origins of her financial disorder. By 1990, Penelope had learned to live in the south of France on a weekly food budget of 60FF (pre-Euro, about $10). Every scrap of food was maximized for value and usage: stale bread dutifully dipped in oil, sautéed and consumed. Cheese rinds never discarded but also fried and eaten and grocery store samples scarfed down obligatorily as amuse-bouches.
When I moved back to NYC in 1992, I resisted this city's hallmark indulgence: ordering in dinner. Instead, I continued my discipline of making my own dinner. I did loosen the purse strings slightly, however, and let myself add a half glass of wine from a bottle whose cost never exceeded $7.
Shortly thereafter, the parade of excuses marched in, stomping all over my Calvinist budget. I developed increasingly fanciful rationalizations for spending: “you're only young once, go out and live it up” and “hey, if you want to meet someone, you gotta travel, do a Hamptons share, and buy some new clothes.”
And, the ultimate excuse: “you know you get more work done in cafés than at home, so why not take your documents out for dinner, every night.”
And so, I evolved from one of the most financially disciplined creatures in NYC to a full blown financial bulimic. Living in NYC made it easy to hide my disease. After all, NYC is inhabited primarily by financial enablers—those dedicated to encouraging you to spend $ you don't have (friends convincing you “you deserve it” and banks issuing easy credit)—and their co-conspirators, the financial predators—those who actually extract the $, restaurants, shops, etc. NYC would not be what it is were it not for the evolutionary force of these two breeds.
As I struggled to understand my nefarious urges, I found myself flipping through the pages of Money, A Memoir: Women, Emotions and Cash, which explores the complex emotional relationship between modern women and money--their own and others’.* What did money represent to me anyway? Financial or emotional security?
By 2000, having failed in my quest for a sugar daddy, I learned to become my own sugar mama. In December, with great longing, a girlfriend and I watched doting husbands stand on line at Tiffany’s eager to bejewel their wives for Christmas. It then dawned on us that we could buy our own jewelry. And so we did. We each bought a pair of pearl earrings with a tasteful sprinkling of diamonds.
Recently, I reread Money, A Memoir. As interesting a reread as it was, I realized the book mischaracterized the subject as a gender issue and, in so doing, trivialized centuries of male pride, ambivalence and embarrassment associated with earning and spending money.
Understanding the rapport between money and emotions has universal appeal but may be all the more difficult to fathom in the capital of materiality, NYC. As I sift through nearly two decades of anecdotes, the men stand out as much as the women:
•The senior Morgan Stanley managing director who refused to eat in any restaurant where the cutlery has already been placed on the table because that meant the price of an entree would be too high. Yet he offered to buy me a new winter coat one night rather than wait on a lengthy coat check line.
•The senior partner at a very white shoe firm who saved the miniature gins and vodkas from every business flight he took so he could populate the bars in his 5 homes with these mini-tributes to his frugality.
•The jobless girlfriend who fretted continuously over her financial security, yet found fast solace in a $600 Botox treatment.
Why do we do these things? As I've learned, we all suffer from varying degrees of a financial consumption disorder. So, don't be ashamed. You're part of a well known financially bulimic demographic. The rest of us are here to support and sympathize with you, so write in and share your stories of financial excess and economic ambivalence.
Editorial Staff Note: Shortly before publication, Penelope suffered a relapse and bought a sweater because her office was over air-conditioned. She will be implementing a strict $2 limit on lunch until the excess amount spent on the sweater has been recouped. Please send food donations to The Lunch Report, P.O Box 777, NY, NY, 10021 and they will be redirected accordingly.
Notes
*“Eating Single in America,”
http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com/2010/03/eating-single-in-america.html
*“Lunch at The Breakers, Recession-Style,” http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com/2009/12/lunch-report-lunch-at-breakers.html.
“Correction and Addendum”
http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com/2009/12/lunch-report-correction-and-addendum-to.html
*Money, A Memoir: Women, Emotions and Cash, Liz Perle (Picador, December 2006).
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