Beltway Bitch BarbieTM
Valbee commented about the cost of my daily commute, and it got me thinking.
Let’s assume I spend about $35 a week on average fueling up the car. I drive out of my way (to Fairfax County) to get gas because it’s the cheapest on my radar, so of course I have to get it more frequently but the cost basis is worth it.
Which, yuck. But whatever — can’t fight City Hall.
But that’s the price of the commute. The cost is a whole ‘nother matter.
I used to bitch to high hell about my old job, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t say there were moments of absolute clarity and incredulity at the smarts that people were hiding under the cloak of mediocrity, as I liked to call it. My old H.R. director was one smart cookie, and I never gave her credit for it.
She was very profound on the cost of time. When we were getting slapped with furlough days so we could make budget, she voluntarily dropped down to four days a week, every week. I’d thought I was some sort of saint myself for working on those unpaid days (as my deadlines didn’t change to fit the budget), but she was the smartest one of us all.
She thought about it and decided that she’d worked enough years in her life that she deserved some time to herself. She and her husband were getting up there in years, and she realized how precious a commodity that time really is. So she treated those Furlough Fridays as three-day weekends and was just as happy as a pig in poop.
Now, granted, she could AFFORD to take the time off. But it taught me a huge lesson in that time is WAY more precious than money any day, and having money means buying time.
I think it was in the “One Minute Millionaire” book that said your goal should be to have all of your days pre-paid. Like, idiots like me who are waiting for their pay raise and a miracle to afford to move to the apartment of their dreams (I’m being philosophical here, not entirely truthful, although it is a VERY nice place) are, well, idiots. That we should make/bank enough money to be able to say, “I’d like to spend the next six months in Tahiti. I’m going to go book the trip right now.” And then go DO it, because the money is already on hand.
Well, I guess that IS my goal, smarty pants. It’s just not my REALITY. Not right now, anyway. But wow, it’d be nice to not scrimp and struggle all the damn time. And yes, I can’t budget worth a shit, I admit it. But I also made a lot of stupid mistakes throughout the past decade that I now have to unravel, so I have to forget about pre-paying my days when I’ve got to finish paying for days I don’t even remember living!
Anyway, I digress. But the point (shut up, there was one!) is that I will be getting back all that gas money to put into my new rent … AAAAANNNNDDDD, I will get back about 10 hours a week of my time as well. YES THAT’S RIGHT — 10 HOURS! Half a day, practically. Better yet, I’ll get ME back, because Beltway Bitch BarbieTM (vanity license plates that say “eat me,” “back up,” “U dick” and “die” sold separately) comes with a road rage that doesn’t stop when the emergency brake handle is lifted.
My mom informed me that extended-family members are all shocked and appalled at how much I pay for rent and how much I WILL pay for rent. That I’m a spoiled brat. That I’m wasteful. That I’m hateful and evil and have poor judgment and blah blah blah jealousycakes.
First off, I informed my mom that unless anyone is contributing to/footing the bill for my move, they don’t get input. Nor does she have to listen to it.
Second, my judgment is impeccable. (Give or take. …) Well, at least my intuition is spot-on — I never second-guess myself in that regard. It’s just implementing said inner guidance that’s my issue. But I’m working on that. It’s at about this point in my life that I realize that everyone ISN’T full of shit, but a lot of them are. And I ain’t one of ’em.
So no matter what I do, where I end up or what dreams I choose to have (or, for that matter, which ones pop into my head uninvited but that are fun as all hell to entertain anyway), they’re mine. I take it very personally when my decisions/judgment are questioned because I’m NOT DUMB. I have an excuse a reason for everything I do/don’t do/say.
Extended relatives with opinions are like bad drivers — if ya ain’t gonna NOT piss me off, then get outta my way. All I’m doing is looking for some peace and happiness — to fall back in love with the person I started out to be who’s hiding beneath the Stressed-out Angry Girl who has bullied her way into my skin.
And I can’t wait for that bitch to hit the highway … in the opposite direction. Pending credit approval, that’s April 30. Lord give me strength in the meantime. …
March 14th, 2006 at 9:36 PM
Yeah well, your extended family (like mine) lives in Pittsburgh where rent is like 50% less than it is here. So they can STFU until they know what they’re talking about.