I wake up to find my husband isn’t there.
I look at the clock.
It’s 5 A.M. Did he fall asleep on the couch?
I find Pat in the living room, in the maroon chair, his knees to his chest.
I crouch beside him.
“What is it?”
He looks at me, tears shining on his cheeks.
It’s merely our debt, a problem I’m already well aware of.
This particular morning, Pat is holding vigil over our money problems.
But our children are getting olderone is a third grader and the other is in preschool.
It’s clear they need financial stability.
My husband and I are both 48.
We have no retirement plan.
We have no savings.
We don’t even have an emergency fund.
We were deeply in love and devoted to our work.
Owning a couch didn’t seem necessary.
Pat came into the marriage with a sizable $70,000 student-loan debt, which we underpaid monthly.
The first major thing we put on a credit card was our $5,000 wedding.
He held it up.
“This is where we’ll put our change,” he said proudly.
“As soon as we walk in the door, we’ll empty our pockets.”
He produced a few coins and dropped them in, the silver clinking against the thick glass.
Both of us were waiting tables then, so we always had plenty of change.
And, indeed, we took great pleasure in watching the coins rise to the top.
I was on the dean’s list in college.
Pat has a master’s in fine art.
We are, by most American standards, reasonably bright and well educated.
We were also, I realize now, incredibly naive.
Who needed a vacuum cleaner?
I write books, magazine articles and TV shows.
Together, we earn anywhere from $60,000 to $140,000 a year.
The trouble is, with that much fluctuation, we find it difficult to create financial structure.
And because planning is not our forte, we were sure it had to come from a professional.
It turns out there are many kinds of financial planners.
After reviewing the qualifications of several in our area, we choose Phillip Cook, a certified financial planner.
When we meet, I’m struck by how California he looks in a pressed pink shirt.
“Did you bring your tax return?”
he asks, looking at the envelope in Pat’s hand.
“Uh, no,” Pat says, slapping the table.
“I should have thought of that.
We could bring it with us next time.”
I look at Cook to see any trace of a reaction.
Are we the dumbest couple to come waltzing through his door in years?
We have none to manage.
“Well, show me what you’ve got,” he says.
“Well, there’s no magic here,” he says.
“You’re going to have to minimize the cash outflow.
Cook explains that we need to draw up a budget, something Pat and I have never considered.
To our way of thinking, we underearn; we don’t overspend.
He warns us about an I-deserve-it mentality.
Your ultimate reward is being debt-free.”
“That’s where you’ll start making the hard choices like, ‘Do you need cable?
Or Netflix?'”
“Then check to see if your actual expenditures match the budget you’ve drawn up.
A budget is as basic to your financial life as DNA.
But the people who do it are successful.”
To start the process, he instructs us to go home and write down our life goals.
“These will inform your financial goals,” he says.
Continue working at jobs we love.
We are willing, however, to redefine what those jobs might be.
Spend time with our children and each other.
We’re on a roll, so we decide to move on to our one-year financial goals.
We grapple over what’s realistic but settle on…
Create at least one consistent source of income between us.
Pay off $10,000 of our $50,000 credit card debt.
Stick to our new budget.
Our three-year goals are simply an extension of our first-year goals.
A few days later, our goals taped to the computer, we sit down with Pat’s spreadsheets.
I love the spreadsheets because they suggest there is a logical way to manage our seemingly unmanageable money problems.
But when we get down to the variables, we manage to find the promised wiggle room.
Clothing, for example.
“I’m putting down $50 a month, just to be safe,” Pat says.
“Next, transportation.”
I suggest that Pat get a bike so he can work out as he saves gas money.
Wow, I think.
We’ll be richer, and he’ll be fitter.
It’s fun working as a team on our money.
“We could switch phone companies,” Pat says, pointing to the spreadsheet.
He gets on the computer and finds a plan that would lower our monthly bill by $50.
His brows furrow with concentration, making him look smart in a sexy-nerd kind of way.
Ultimately, we discover an extra $500 a month to put toward our debt.
We look at each other, flushed with our success.
I grab his arm and pull him into the bedroom.
We discover that debt-solving sex is pretty much like make-up sex with fewer apologies and more spreadsheets.
Pat and I have never had a problem connecting physically.
But when it comes to money, we’re like a round peg and a square hole.
We don’t fit.
At least one partner should be knowledgeable about finances.
But both of us are clueless and angry at each other for our mutual cluelessness.
I’d like for us to be able to get through a financial conversation without slamming a door.
For this we call Amanda Clayman, a psychotherapist in New York City who specializes in financial wellness.
Just the phrasefinancial wellnessfills me with hope.
We’ve been successfully living within our budget for a month.
Clayman recommends that Pat and I commit to four phone sessions over three months.
Pat is less than enthusiastic because he’s looking for practical nuts-and-bolts fixes, not hand holding.
I am deeply resistant to the latter, which would annihilate our solid credit score.
Due to an overdraft, one of our credit card payments didn’t go through.
“Now that card’s annual percentage rate will go up.
Then they’ll all go up,” Pat says.
“The only option is bankruptcy,” he concludes.
“Why do you do thatjump to the worst-case scenario?!”
Pat yells, grabbing a coat, even though it’s 75 degrees outside.
The coat grab is a sign that our argument has kicked to a higher level.
“That happens to be a matter of opinion.
Bankruptcy actually sounds pretty worst-case scenario to me,” I retort.
“You don’t know that!”
he yells, opening the door, then immediately dialing down the volume because of the neighbors.
Let’s just forget it and declare bankruptcy."
“That’s just snide!
All I’m saying is that we should talk about it!”
Pat screams, slamming the door and staying inside.
We look at each other, spent.
Tears sting my eyes.
Time to call Clayman.
On the phone, we rehash our argument.
She suggests we table the bankruptcy talk until we’ve explored all our options.
Which, to me, suggests our problem is solvable.
She suggests finding extra, steady work, thereby generating some regular income.
Plus, given our lack of traditional office experience, I fear we’d end up slinging burgers.
And how would we pay for child care if Pat isn’t watching the kids?
“Give it a time frame,” Clayman suggests.
After a year, we can make a decision about how we’ll move forward."
For the next month, that’s what we do.
We discover that figuring out how to earn more is tougher than creating a budget.
Since cutting out these daily escapes from my computer, I’ve been feeling isolated and a bit blue.
“This shouldn’t be an exercise in self-punishment.”
I do feel a tad less deprived.
When I get home, I find Pat at his desk looking satisfied.
“I just found out about some data-entry work I could do at home.”
“That’s good,” I say, apprehensively.
“When would you do it?
I need the hours during the day to write.”
This is our cue to start blaming and yelling.
Instead, we both breathe, then pull back.
“Let’s make a schedule of when you’d do the work,” I suggest.
“it’s possible for you to try it for three months.
And let’s decide how many hours you’ll put in a week.”
Pat pulls out a legal pad and jots down “Ten hours a week for three months.”
“How about 20 hours?”
That way, Pat can put in some daytime hours.
We can do it for three months, I think.
We can put up with anything for three months.
“Change is the right combination of discomfort and hope,” she says.
I like that phrase so much, I write it down.
That’s exactly how I’ve feltuncomfortable and hopeful.
“Have you been talking to other people about your situation?”
He reaches for a mini-tart.
“No,” he says casually.
“We can’t do stuff like that right now because we’re in debt.”
A flaky bit of croissant catches in my throat.
I cough and reach for my glass of orange juice, take a sip and wash down the obstruction.
After an awkward silence, I say, “Yup.
We’re working on clearing that up.
So we’re not spending on extras this year.”
The mood in the room shifts.
The women exchange tales of their own money woes and fears.
Several ask for Clayman’s and Cook’s contact information.
I leave the party feeling like the go-to girl for sharing financial fears and finding relief.
We are about to tackle the third goalsecuring one full-time job between us.
I’ve been investigating teaching positions.
Pat is now directing a show, which he hopes will lead to more steady theater work.
Having an account like this lets us deal with them more calmly.
Yesterday was one of the afternoons we had scheduled for me to watch the boys so he could work.
Then I remembered Clayman’s advice in our final phone conversation: “Practice change,” she said.
So I slipped my finger under the flap of the envelope and tore it open.
Photo Credit: Kevin Cremens
