An uncomfortable truth…

I’ve learned quite a lot about myself over the last few years. Living alone has brought with it some congratulatory moments of mastery, like the time a year ago when I figured out the problem with the washing machine and fixed it. And there’s all that financial stuff that used to be Jack’s job and that I’m now managing quite well, thank you very much. But there have also been some uncomfortable moments that have challenged my assumptions about myself. It seems, for example, that the house gets dirty even when I’m the only one in it, and that maybe the division of labour around here was always more fair than I thought!

There have been some more introspective realizations as well. Here are some thoughts on one of them.

_________________________

High Horse

“Mercury still rises, you know! That hasn’t changed.” I was riding my high horse of ethical righteousness, the trusty steed that carried me off into the land of minimalism and away from conspicuous consumption characterized by—at the moment—an electronic indoor-outdoor thermometer. “You can still nail a thermometer to a tree.”

“I’m just replacing what we had before it broke,” Jack said. “I like to be able to read the outdoor temperature from my desk, okay? Is that really such a big deal?”

The thermometer wasn’t, but it was symbolic of my spouse’s insistence on possessing every gadget going. “Gadget-man” his grandson called him. Lovingly. So I kept the argument going for some time. About a 32-dollar thermometer.

My role, in the purchasing department of our marriage, was to say no. No to the dyna-kit stereo system shortly after we were married. No to the mid-life sports car. No to the Commodore 64, the electric can-opener, the bigger television, the house in Mexico, the late-life sports car, the digital camera, the ipods, the second- and third-generation MacBooks. And the bulldozer, of course, which became family short-hand for his tendency to purchase the unnecessary. (We did live on a farm, lest you imagine a bulldozer parked in a suburban driveway.)

All the above items found their way into our lives despite my attempts to claim the moral high ground. When I objected, he began listing the many things he might have acquired but did not—because of my high horse. He also pointed out, unfairly I thought, that I did not object to the dishwasher, the riding lawnmower, the kitchen renovation, or the new deck. “Essential appliances,” I said. “Good investments.” 

Okay, I enjoy the big TV (which isn’t that big by current standards, and isn’t even “smart” as I gather some now are). I came to love the house in Mexico. I upgraded my Mac recently. But that’s not the point, is it? The point is that I thought we should live more simply. Generally speaking. Dishwasher and deck notwithstanding.

Jack thought spending money on things that would make life easier and more fun was perfectly fine. And fun, for him, often involved getting stuff. And then getting me to enjoy it too, which seemed underhanded.

Now, I am free to be as ethically responsible as I like, to reject the detritus of over-consumption—like the multi-component, multi-speaker audio system and its several kilometers of wire that wandered through the house. I have replaced it with a smaller, self-contained unit. It wasn’t cheap, but it feels more minimalist. Certainly less conspicuous. The new car? Well, I can explain…it was Jack’s idea. Really, it was. It just took me a few years to justify it without his help. 

It was all so much easier when the weight of self-indulgence rested on someone else’s shoulders. 

Recently, the new electronic thermometer stopped working. I bought another one because—well—it’s nice to be able to read the temperature first thing in the morning from beside the coffee pot. Then I discovered it just needed new batteries. Now I have two. 

Okay, Jack. Go ahead and laugh.