My father died one year ago on this day.
My sisters, my nephew, and I—we sat around him, holding onto each other and holding onto him. I know he knew we were there because he refused to die until his three girls and one grandson were present. We all told him our secret goodbyes alone, and the Hospice center sent in someone to pray.
Then peacefully, with all of us there, he took his last breath and left us. I miss him every day.
Herb Liming
1931-2021
Excuses are easy to come by; temptation to break the No Purchase Year is running rampant.
It’s Fall; it’s getting cold. I could use some fall clothes.
Ummm, these wrinkles around my eyes need to go. Botox would do it.
Halloween is coming, and I would love some new fun Halloween and fall
decor. And dog costumes!
I could go through more, but they all sound the same in the end. “I should
forgive myself for breaking the No Purchase Year because….”
Because Fall, because Halloween, because aging. I’m happy to report that
these all ended with reminding myself what I’m doing and why, but the
temptation is real.
It also ended because I took each temptation and ran it through my mental
scanner. Fall clothes—I do NOT need these. When I decluttered and organized
my closet, I came up with four similar tan sweaters, two similar brown
cardigans, and eleven pairs of boots suitable for Fall and winter. Listening to
myself describe the number of things I have was enough to dissuade the
suggestion of purchasing any fall and winter clothes.
Arguing against Botox is hard on my pride, vanity and insecurities. I have all
of those things at once. The only way I got past this was to remind myself of
the associated cost and the feeling of thirty little needle pricks in my skin.
Pay for pain.
Halloween is tougher. It was my favorite holiday until my father died on
October 31, 2021. Distracting myself with skeletons, witches, and candy sounds
like a fantastic idea to keep me swimming around this time. When I tossed this
one into the hopper and mulled it over, it was harder to talk myself down. I
still cry nearly daily (alone, in my truck) about my father’s death; I cannot
imagine the reaction and pain on the actual anniversary. Maybe a distraction,
some joy, humor, and horror would be just the ticket not to cry myself into a
swamp of blankets and running mascara.
Historically, that’s what I’d do. It’s what I’ve always done when things are
too difficult, but it’s not the right thing to do. On August 5, I clocked into work, told everyone I was “fine,” and went about my day. I probably ordered 15 things from Amazon that day, too. But then I got a migraine, and I got sick on top of that, and I told myself it had
NOTHING to do with the emotions boiling under the surface that I would not and
could not discuss. August 5 is the day my mother died, and I was not there, and
I am not okay with anything around this event.
I haven’t processed my mother’s death fully. It’s a challenging calling; growing
up, we never had the chance to be honest about our feelings or feel deeply
traumatized and cry. I’ve used the “push it down, jar it up, explode
later” method since I was little. Even trying to write about what happened
turns me into knots, and I have yet to confront, acknowledge or allow myself to
mourn these things.
While Forgetting is sometimes a good thing, avoiding is not.
So on October 31, I tell myself I am going to mourn. I am going to feel it
even if I’m in public. Even if mourning means I pull the blanket over me,
snuggle with dogs, and do NOTHING productive at all. This is what I’ve told
myself to keep from launching into a Halloween shopping spree and filling this
void with things.
Ah—there’s the rub. I’ve always filled the void with temporary, material
things to take the edge off. I didn’t become an alcoholic or a substance addict, but I did become an emotional shopaholic. The Year of Less isn’t just resistance to my financial waste or of the American tendency to hoard and live in excess.
It’s about taking away that crutch and living with myself. Bare, unfettered,
without the camouflage of new things.
Skeptically Yours.
Did I tell you about the last two years of my life?
Mr. Manne died. I moved to Ohio. My mother died. My father died. I married the love of my life, with whom I had only spent four weekends since 2005.
So it goes, right? That’s how everyone rolls through life, right? Life seems uncertain, and then BOOM—you hit forty and do everything all at once, No? Just me? Okay.
Just after the wedding, I started this experiment of purchasing nothing. I decluttered (and am still decluttering), reviewed my finances, and realized that, oh CRAP—it’s a mess. It’s always been a mess.
I looked at everything except vehicles; my vice and passion were left off the table for scrutiny. I had trimmed the excess fat off every other expense and bad habit. I’ve even cut out 90% of my eating-out and take-out coffee. It’s not perfect, but I sincerely thought I’d do worse with this.
Then came the honesty—I’ve always spent too much on my cars. I’ve typically had more than two cars for my entire adulthood; usually a classic (or 2 or 3) and my daily driver. All of these cars would be purchased, registered, and insured and start the lengthy, neverending, expensive process of modification. What can I say? I am, always have been, and always will be a gearhead.
I remember when I found my Roadmaster in a field in Pensacola during my Freshman year of college. She practically mesmerized me, and I thought about her nonstop until she was mine. At that point, I had the Nova, a little 5sp V6 Ranger, and then added the Buick into the stable. I was the only college Freshman I knew that had multiple cars.
It wasn’t like I easily had the money to do this. College was spent living with family, forgoing parties, bringing my lunches with me, and living like a miser in every other way. Then at night, I’d plug in the work light and tinker under the hood until my body ached with fatigue. Everyone else was partying, networking, drinking, and creating social bonds. In hindsight, I can’t say this was the best way to spend my college career, but it kept me out of trouble.
So now I look at these expenses, and the blaring cost is my Raptor. These days I only have 2 vehicles: the Raptor and the Roadmaster. I reluctantly put the Roadmaster up for sale. She’s a challenging sale to anybody but the most fearless of us petrol-headed type people. While the big stuff like engine, transmission, brakes, and suspension are present and accounted for, countless things need to be finished, installed, and buttoned up. If she weren’t mine, I would read that ad and think, “Yikes, too much work.”
My Raptor, though…
I decided to trade her in on something cheaper, reducing payments and overall cost-to-own. Cost-to-own is one of those sneaky topics that is easy to overlook. For me.
I test-drove. I tried. Folks—I’m skeptical that this part of me could ever…EVER…be subdued. The minute I started driving these potential replacement vehicles, I was picturing the mods. A tune, no doubt. Maybe lowering. A wrap? Yeah—I didn’t really like the color. Turning that part of myself off seems like an impossible task.
So, I have backtracked on this part of my expenses experiment. These last two years have been chaotic, and feeling like one thing is staying the same brings comfort. Sometimes that alone is worth hanging onto, even if the actual cost is monetarily higher. This has been the one constant in my life since I was three years old, and I’m okay to pay extra for this one thing.
Skeptically Yours,
Bigskeptic
Amy Liming 