J. and I eavesdrop, enjoying the floor show while sharing wine, food, encouragement and laughter.
The check comes, and we drop our respective credit cards on the table.
I frown and, before I can stop myself, say, “You should pay more.
You had one more glass of wine than I did.”
We stare at each other, mortified.
Neither of us can believe what has just come out of my mouth.
I’ve put some rainy-day money aside, but not enough to keep up my formerly free-spending lifestyle.
casualness that once made my evenings out so much fun.
“I’ll leave the tip,” J. says stiffly.
I let her, and we hug good-bye with a new awkwardness.
What a stingy friend you are, I tell myself as I get into my car.
I don’t enjoy playing the role of poor relation.
G. never looked down on me nor gave me reason to feel inferior because of my precarious financial state.
Not surprisingly, blaming myself for these things started to feel unbearable.
So I did the only sensible thing I could: I started blaming her.
I convinced myself that wealth had changed her; that she’d married for money and become a snob.
When she didn’t, I resented her selfishness.
Maybe she had money, but at least I had love and a rock-solid relationship.
I’d start to tell G. about my new book deal, then change the subject.
Soon, our cozy fireside confessionals chilled to frozen silences.
With the ancient redwoods outside her window as silent witnesses, our friendship withered and died.
From now on, I vowed, I’d avoid heartache and stick to my own kind.
One day I was a hardworking, underpaid, underinsured freelancer.
My checking account went from empty to full; my shoes, from Payless to pay more.
I clung to my identity as the economic underdog, running hungry, efficient and lean.
Soon I was buying gifts, meals, drinks and plane tickets for my less-affluent friends.
I made friends with people who had more money than I did.
Among them was S., whom I met at a conference.
One night, we had dinner at an upscale Indian restaurant and ordered extravagantly.
Afterward, the table was littered with our leftovers: biryani and kebabs on gold-edged plates.
S. lifted the dripping wine bottle from its silver bucket and filled our goblets.
Her glass gleamed in the candlelight as she toasted to our friendship and mutual success.
We touched glasses, basking in our shared sense of accomplishment.
S. had recently sold her first big book.
I was nearly two years into my sweet gig.
We both knew how fortunate we were.
The check came, and S. and I engaged in an affectionate tug-of-war.
“Let me.”
“No, let me.”
Clearly, S. found me charming.
Of course she did: I was expansive and relaxed.
Everywhere I wentand I went lots of places nowmy healthy bank balance backed me up.
Until the dream job evaporated and I found myself caught up in a lifestyle I could no longer afford.
It was time to stop thinking about what I could buy (real estate?
and start thinking about what I didn’t need (premium cable, 600-thread-count sheets).
Why, I wondered, wouldn’t T. do the same for me?
“I’d love to come,” I told her.
When the server took orders, I asked for an appetizer, a glass of wineand a separate check.
No one seemed offended.
The others offered tastes of their osso buco and salmon; I offered tastes of my baked Brie.
I laughed and gossiped, then went home satisfied.
I’d learned, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what makes my life rich.
Which is why I’ll never be poor again.
Photo Credit: Jonathan Kantor
