Freeconomics: how to live on $60 a week

I don’t think very much about money. When I do, it’s with a dreamy, contented feeling of possibility. Not because I don’t have good reasons to stress about my cash flow, but because it seems self-defeating to resent money and its power, or to situate yourself as powerless over it.

My financial philosophy runs along the lines of a vaguely remembered quote, something like “A woman should never worry about spending money, and should trust in her ability to earn more.” Dizzy shopaholics can fuck off: I’m a grown-up, responsible person with income that I spend in whatever direction I feel like.

It’s starting to seem, though, like the financial abstractions I live by might not be so benign. The dramatic economic slump affects everybody, even me and my token mutual funds. Being financially conscious is no longer the domain of Oprah’s own bossy money-honey Suze Orman and the whole live-simple crowd, but a suddenly ubiquitous element of cultural conversation. And so, for one week, I’m going to live with just the basics.

I have no official limit, just a rule of “need” versus “want.” What I’m aiming for is the cleanse factor: it’s not realistic to expect a week of abstinence to put me in a high-water financial position, but I could use a moratorium to think on my spending habits, the blatant (shiny girl junk) and the insidious (service charges) alike. This is a macro version of the challenge that spoiled Westerners of my varietal and vintage are being confronted with, and all things considered, we’ll have to get good at it.

DAY ONE
Buying my last giant latte for a while, I throw down a fiver, and the gauntlet. I’m up for it. I’ve lived on nothing in my lean university and early-career years; have had on-purpose eras of vagabonding. This will be easy.

Best Buy emails me: “$100 off, 3 days only!” I could definitely make use of the sale, especially pre-Christmas. But without the capital necessary to get the discount, I can’t take advantage. Would this count as “spending money to save money”? No.

I’d merrily packed my dinner, but left it at home without a thought. Stop at Shoppers Drug Mart for cash-efficient, second-class protein bars, and Life brand allergy pills. I’m sleeping at a friend’s place, a) to score a ride to work tomorrow and b) for free evening activities (cable TV; drugs), and the mingled essence of cats and chronic usually leaves me allergically prostrate with a wet cloth over my eyes. Five dollars for 12 hours of comfort is a just expense, I decide. Spend the inevitable snack run looking at tabloids instead of buying energy drinks based on most-hilarious packaging.

DAY TWO
My friend wants coffee, and offers to pay for both of us if I pick it up. I enjoy my overpriced cup of acid more than usual, and drink the whole thing. Half a protein bar for breakfast, half for lunch.

Leave work hungry and in a fury, having actively missed the few free hours a week that the AGO and ROM offer, anticipating long lines and children. I’m in no mood for either. Two friends call with suggestions of shopping. It’s that time of year. Turn both down for a (free) night alone.

Groceries of a basic variety are allowed. I take a slow stroll through Valu-mart. Meat and bread seem excessive and gross, so I choose a rubbery block of old cheddar, figuring that sharper cheese will last longer, and get apples, bananas and the kind of lettuce that they’re asking me to wash myself. Carefully fondling and considering my choices for their ascetic qualities embarrasses me and worsens my mood. My grocery bill is around $20, about half of what I’m used to. Total success, minus points for emotional damage.

I skip the Spacing magazine launch party because I don’t really need to socialize with friends and colleagues. I stay home and read a cautionary biography of Marilyn Monroe, a generous spender who was done in by excess. Tonight, I’m saving about $30 on transit, cover and drinks. A small wad of crumpled-up bills has remained untouched in my wallet for two days now. Unprecedented!

DAY THREE
I wake up late, but save the five or seven dollars I might spend on takeout breakfast (and double-task) by eating a leftover gingerbread cookie that my roommate baked while I dry my hair. But, I’m working at my morning “Kate Pace” (distracted, slow), and the over-run means I have to choose between a taxi ($8) or being late to a meeting. I call a cab, and accept my first free-week failure.

The shoes I’d usually wear with my outfit require the attention of a cobbler, which is cheap (around $10), but for now, unnecessary. Instead, wear a less-good but intact pair, and feel off and unsexy all day. Facebook my friend in hair school, looking for a cut in exchange for baking or something. He can’t do it for a month. Remain shaggy.

Walk home. Eat frozen stuff that I’ve had forever in front of a grainy episode of ER and the news. Go to bed catastrophically frustrated. Usually I’d be more likely to be getting takeout ($), or catching a movie ($$), or drinking at a bar and running all over town in pursuit of fun ($$$).

DAY FOUR
Another spending failure, for the same reason (early morning meeting), to the same effect (taxi ride, $12). I arrive at the Drake Hotel and order water. Want very much to jump the table and drain the coffee cup that an amused colleague has refilled and refilled and refilled. Having a “lifestyle” (barf) that includes pricey café as a “thing” robs me of some financial choices. It would unequivocally hinder my career if I didn’t spend money on going out.

Forgot lunch, again. Habitual convenience spending in the arena of five to 20 bucks is clearly my battle: meals in spare minutes; taxis or the TTC when I’m out of time or too high or drunk to walk or bike. Sick of apples and shitty protein bars, I source the cheapest quick meal I can think of (egg on bagel from a mom-and-pop) within two blocks of my office. It’s fucking gnarly. Since EYE WEEKLY coffee is excruciating, I drink a bunch of those mini-creamers instead. I consider throwing it all up, but would then be out $2.

Walk in the icy cold to Whole Foods for a dinner of samples. I feel like a dick, wandering the aisles in clear pursuit of freebies, but at this point no longer care how the fancy bitches see me. Too much of my discretionary spending is about affect, motivated by impressing other women with the things that I have or impressing myself with private luxuries. A sudden hallucination of sashimi (around $7) nearly knocks me into a shelf of Burt’s Bees.

Tonight’s entertainment is a free U of T roundtable about a developing theatre project. It’s semi-interesting, but mostly I’m pleased to be part of the world, doing a thing. I’ve brought my friend Amy, a smart megababe, who keeps me entertained and interested for zero dollars. So: nothing lost and much gained.

DAY FIVE
My ex-boyfriend buys me a nice breakfast (at this juncture, we would typically split the $50 bill) in exchange for girl advice, which I offer effusively and at length. Later, we hit the St. Lawrence Market for samples. We have sage cheese, pieces of Montreal bagels, tiny pretzels dipped in horseradish, tastes of peameal bacon and prosciutto, generous sips of booze, and some thumb-size bites of bumbleberry pie. A real hustler could eat well on a Saturday, here.

I read the Tina Fey cover story in Vanity Fair hiding in a corner of the newsstand, then sort of sidle away, whistling. In an average week I’d spend a sick amount on magazines, around $30. Sneaky speed-reading negates the filler that I usually spend lots of time reading. A constructive lesson.

Walk past homeless man with a dog. Give nothing. Feel like an asshole.

A kind friend supplies me with a great dinner (and another guest brings wine) in exchange for my help with her resumé (which I work on after the wine, so perhaps the trade was compromised). I contribute dessert, some Rice Krispy Treat giveaways from the market. This is something I should do more of. Eating out is tremendously expensive, and here I’ve had social hour, helped someone and been helped, sans dollars.

DAY SIX
Spend the morning reading, instead of browsing. Shopping hardly matters. I don’t miss it or feel left out of any kind of created consumer culture. This might be due to the fact that I need nothing that I don’t already have. While I own hardly any furniture, and value experiences over electronics, in an average month I spend a lot — whatever I can without relying on credit or compromising long-term plans — on clothes, books and music. My zero-dollar count in this regard makes me feel like the blessed offspring of a martyr and a Puritan.

I do, though, sense wicked PMS blasting off, and I’m without my usual recourse: dumb movie in a big theatre, seven dollar Diet Coke in hand; lengthy international phone calls to my sister. (I don’t actually know how much those cost because I rarely look at my bill.) I feel limited and unhappy without my easy go-to of dropping a bit of money to ease psychic pain. The restraint is discomfiting, considering the fact that I’ve endured similar frugality efforts, except for real.

Down some free wine courtesy of the LCBO’s “tastings,” then wander to a free, nerdy classical concert. I go alone, feeling bad for the friends I’ve implicated already. They are probably buying Wiis, or ordering more mimosas. Spend the evening scrubbing the bathroom and washing the kitchen walls: free, and much appreciated by cookie-making roommates.

DAY SEVEN
I don’t leave my house on the last day of my experiment, in part because it’s too exhausting to live like this and in part because the roof threatens collapse and I’m monitoring the situation. Emails inquire how it all went. “It fucking sucked,” types itself before I think about it. I play it off like I was just cranky for Starbucks (which I was), but the insight gained was startling. This week I spent almost $60, but under the same circumstances, without restriction, it would be almost $700. Spending money unapologetically on me-stuff might be crucial in this golden pocket of twentysomething time, but what I’m really doing is abusing my young urban professional privilege in ways that are easy but not particularly rewarding. I’ll stay a consumer, but now feel somewhat less likely to drop bills on brunch and books, and more inclined to keep them in the bank.

THIS WEEK'S TALLY OF SAVINGS (ALL FIGURES APPROXIMATE)
Skipped Best Buy sale: $100

Bought protein bars instead of real food: $5

Chose drugstore brand over pricier one: $3

Free rides instead of TTC: $5
 
No snacks on snack run: $5
 
Starbucks coffee bought for me: $2

Didn’t go shopping: $50

Cheap groceries: $20
 
Skipped Spacing party to read: $30

Cookie instead of breakfast: $6

Wore dumb shoes: $10

TV instead of fun: $50

Nothing at the Drake: $5

Samples at Whole Foods instead of dinner: $20

U of T talk instead of going out: $40

Traded advice for breakfast: $25
 
Browsed mags instead of buying them: $30
 
Didn’t give change to guy with dog: $2
 
Dinner in instead of out: $25
 
Reading instead of shopping: $85
 
Suffering instead of movies/phone calls: $30
 
Free wine and music instead of going out: $40

Stayed home instead of participating in life: $50

TOTAL SAVINGS FOR THE WEEK: $638