Ben and Me_ From Temperance to Humility - Cameron Gunn [43]
Oh, if only that were the real reason.
I truly am not motivated by money, not in any significant way at least. I often speak and give lectures to groups and am sometimes offered compensation. “No, no,” I say with all the self-congratulation I can muster, “I cannot accept any remuneration for a task that I feel is part of my ethical responsibilities.” Michelle never gets that one.
Yet, on the other hand, I am as guilty of consumerism as any of my neighbors. I like gadgets, salivating over any new technology, and when I close my eyes and dream of a perfect life, it almost always includes a foreign-built convertible and an in-ground pool. So any principled opposition to the accumulation of wealth is an ex post facto justification. It is not the reason I can’t balance my checkbook (actually, I have no idea where our checkbook is).
So from whence does this particular character flaw arise? I can’t blame my parents. They managed, with relatively modest incomes, to enter their retirement absolutely debt free. In the interim they paid off a house, gave their only child an education, and traveled a good portion of the world.
Michelle is clearly not the culprit. She, as I said, was a good money manager before we met. If anyone is a corrupter here, it is me.
How about some trauma of youth? Maybe I was teased for having shabby clothes and vowed never to be teased again.
Nope. No clothes-related bullying.
In fact, as a kid, I was pretty good with money. I remember buying my own set of hockey equipment (this might be a false memory, but I’m clinging to it like grim death). When I was twelve, my dad split the cost of a nearly dead pickup truck. It cost me $200, a princely sum for a twelve-year-old, but that $200 of savings represented a giant leap toward adulthood, a ritual passage epitomized by rust and a bad clutch (you simply don’t get a premium vehicle for $400). By the way, I know that twelve sounds like an incredibly young age at which to be a vehicle owner. All I can say in explanation is that where I came from, having a pickup was a bit of a rite of passage, and my dad was the kind of guy who liked to include his son in things. When I was just a year older, I bought my mom a necklace and my dad a 35-millimeter camera for Christmas (all with my own savings). That camera lasted longer than my skill with money.
But, of course, I really do know the answer. I understand the root of my lack of monetary success. In fact, I can almost state the date, hour, and place of my economic demise. I was twenty-two years old. I had just graduated from college. I was planning a trip to Europe, and as part of my preparations, I had obtained my first credit card. Oh, woe is the day that demon plastic fouled my financial soul.
I can still picture the card. It was silver with red lettering. It was a bit of an epiphany that you could obtain credit without actually having a credit history (this was the late 1980s, just before the era of family pets getting unsolicited credit cards in the mail). I was tempted to go out and use it immediately, but instead I stored it safely in my wallet and went about my business. If only it had stayed that way.
One night, exhausted from long hours and little sleep, I ventured out for a beer or two with some coworkers. The beer tasted good, there were pretty girls around, and the band was passable. Two beers turned into six, and soon I noticed my cash getting dangerously low. Remembering my newly acquired credit card, I decided that another round was in order. I’d pay off the card in the morning.
By 1 a.m. I was Nelson Rockefeller (I would have been Paris Hilton, but she was only eight at the time and completely unknown to me—it was a simpler time). The drinks were flowing, and I was buying. It felt good to be rich. I was generous and munificent. Had you been with me that night, I would have happily bought you a drink. I bought one for everyone.
It was only in the harsh light of morning (and it was undoubtedly very harsh that morning) that