Petty Cash

I dreamt last night it was the end of the world. I woke, somewhat relieved, to discover it was just a dreary Tuesday in January.

Not the end of the world, by any means, but the end of a brief period during which I enjoyed the cheap thrill of a falsely positive balance in my checking account before emptying it out to pay quarterly taxes. Time, once again, to stop peeking, just as I refuse to look when the nurse weighs me to kick off my annual check-up. It's only a number I tell myself, but stark reality is something I try to avoid whenever possible. I prefer to gauge my situation -- be it width or wealth -- according to the tightness of my belt.

I balked, not long ago, when friends marveled at my willingness to risk a shift in my lifestyle when I chose to get divorced. Not certain of many things at the time, I felt secure in the knowledge that the benefits of extracting myself from a rocky marriage would far outweigh any detriment I might suffer from the inevitable diminishment in creature comforts. As the divorce process wore on, I took to heart the assurances from those who had been there before, that life would be so much better once I crossed over to the other side. Everybody lies. To quote the latest big "fit" liar, "it's just the way the game is played."

So other than believing creature comforts and material things mean nothing to me and that money is unimportant and that "the other side" would be a utopian world of personal fulfillment and good karma and multiple orgasms and no wet spots and no such thing as back fat, I was pretty realistic about what I was getting myself into. At the very least, now that I am officially a divorcee, I can congratulate myself on making it through a rather arduous journey of self discovery. My new found self awareness knows no bounds. In one of my more recent eureka moments, I learned that I am, in fact, a shallow materialistic bitch who thinks anybody who claims money can't buy happiness has never flown first class. (Warm nuts; can't beat 'em!)

Nevertheless, my new hand has been dealt, and it is what it is (duh; as if it would be what it isn't) and I am determined to make the best of it. The truth is I have lived most of my days without warm nuts dissolving in my mouth and without experiencing multiple orgasms and without a three way mirror to illuminate my back fat. And, as with anything else, personal fulfillment and good karma are attainable, as long as you aim low. Happiness transcends economic status; happiness is much more than a warm nut.

Maybe I have become a Marxist. It's all about leveling the playing field; it's just the way the game is played.