That’s me and Paisley the Pig tonight at the Coinstar in Safeway. Paisley has been with me a long time. He was cashed in once before – I don’t even remember when. But I do remember we cashed him in for something fun – I seem to think it was to throw a party or something.

I’m sorry to say, Paisley, that wasn’t the case tonight.

I’m going to talk about money here in a fairly general sense and I know that makes some people uncomfortable, me especially. I recognize that’s probably part of the problem – unless you face finances frankly and unafraid you can’t get ahead of them. I hope I’m going to get there, but I can at least say that I’m not there yet.

I’ve been scraping by for a lot longer than I care to think about. I work a good job 40 hours a week, and I’ve tried to supplement that by working every Saturday bartending gig I can pick up. And, for the most part, that strategy has worked out, barely. Until last week.

I wasn’t paying as close attention to my bank account as I should have, and the pay period cycles are in their catawampus stage right now such that when I checked my balance for the first time in a week I saw something I hadn’t seen in more than twenty years – a negative.

Stages of grief: denial (short lived), anger (hot, fierce, and laceratingly self-deprecating), bargaining (without much to bargain with, this was short lived), depression (oh, this one stuck around and rooted in my self-inflicted wounds (see anger). I went to some sobbingly dark, dark places…). and acceptance.

Acceptance.

For me money has always been more than cash, it’s been an elusive thing that’s tied up in my life-long history and torments me. I used to love the Jimmy Buffett line, “Made enough money to buy Miami, but I pissed it all away so fast…” For me, it’s probably a much lesser suburb of Miami. Lauderhill, Florida, maybe?

I joke, but that’s about the only way I can talk about money – abstractly, obliquely, metaphorically. I don’t have it – more so right now than just about ever – and I’ve got myself to blame. That’s the other part of that Jimmy Buffett song, “Never meant to last…”

I try to separate self-worth from wealth, but I’ll admit I’m having a hell of time (see depression, above). I don’t think I live an extravagant lifestyle. And I work hard – very hard – for what I have. But I can’t seem to get myself out of this hole. And reconciling the notion that I work at least fifty hours a week just to barely get by, and then tripping and failing even that… it’s tough to believe I have worth when I’m wondering how I’m going to put gas in the car – a car that’s got some deferred maintenance needed and, crap, I still have to pay the registration, and… and… and…

I don’t think I’m saying anything that you can’t relate to. A cursory glance at macro economics will tell you that real wages have been utterly stagnant for the last thirty to forty years. When Boomers complain that Millennials are living at home longer and they didn’t stay at their parent when they were younger, it’s important to remember that the economic world was a whole lot rosier then. Take those stagnant wages and add crippling student debt and, yes, your 2018 dollar isn’t going nearly as far as their 1980 dollar did.

But that argument feels like tilting at windmills. Raging against the machine doesn’t pull your balance out of the gutter. No, tonight that was Paisley the Pig’s job. And his sacrifice should – please knock on wood – carry me to payday at the end of the week. For the record, I will be able to tell you my balance at any given time of day – watching it like a hawk.

Fern had been trying to get me to make an appointment with her financial adviser for… well, at least the better part of a year – she’ll probably tell you longer. A few weeks ago I finally bit the bullet and made an appointment. Coincidentally, it’s Wednesday – this Wednesday. The gods have a really sick sense of humor.

Acceptance.

And a promise to a certain piggy bank that next time I cash him in it will be for something fun – like a party.