This is an essay about money, but it begins at a two-hour-plus Lady Gaga concert at Madison Square Garden, the second leg of her massive spectacle The Mayhem Ball. I stood the whole time (and danced, schvitzed, and waved my iPhone’s flashlight in the air with 20,000 or so new friends).
The truth is, I didn’t know why I, a middle-aged straight man, was there. I got invited at the last minute by my wife (a free ticket!), and I made the conscious decision to say “yes” instead of what I normally do when asked to try something new, which is to pretend I’m a statue.
I didn’t belong there, but I was accepted by Gaga’s little monsters, her fanbase of fabulous freaks. The vibes were positive; everyone was family. The costumes were DIY goth cyberpunk glam. I don’t think I’m the “dress up like a goblin king” type but, you know, if I were ever to see Gaga again, I could be talked into wearing some light eye shadow or a fun wig. I’m open-minded, sort of.
The entire experience was transportive, and I also learned a few valuable lessons: First, I’m older than I’d like to be. Growing older is something I have no control over, and neither do you. We’re both decomposing right now, as you read these words. Second, I need to invest in better footwear because the morning after Gaga’s spectacle, a pair of screaming callouses had formed on the balls of my feet.
If you’re not middle-aged, get ready. It’s a fun journey that begins with aches and pains and then, one night, while singing “Poker Face” at the top of your lungs, your pedal extremities break.
I wish I had gone to the concert wearing shoes that properly supported my feet, as my wife had suggested weeks prior when she noticed that the pair I had on looked like they had been stolen off a sleeping hobo.
I’m cheap about things I should spend money on, and a total spendthrift when it comes to unnecessary purchases, like fancy ice cream. I don’t need to spend eleven dollars on a pint of praline butter cake ice cream, but I do. Conversely, I wear the same shoes for months—and months—until I wear holes into the soles for no good reason.
I pinch pennies on pillows and umbrellas and end up wondering why my neck hurts, or why I got drenched. I just bought this umbrella four years ago for five dollars at a bodega. But I will happily spend a small fortune on new glasses. I have an expensive blender, but ask me how much I spend on shampoo? As little as humanly possible. I buy off-brand shampoo and all of my soapy goods at the dollar store.
My financial decision-making skills are impaired by my greatest flaw: I’m a flibbertigibbet with a salt-and-pepper beard. I have a hummingbird’s attention span. I know, intellectually, that I should buy quality shoes at least every six months, because I pretty much burn through a pair in that time since I faithfully get my 10,000 steps in every day.
I was raised by parents who had grown up without money, and while I enjoyed what they did not—which was a comfortable middle-class childhood—I was taught to be thrifty but not miserly. To shop at secondhand stores, but to, on occasion, treat myself to a pre-job-interview haircut that costs forty bucks instead of twenty. That has proved to be a difficult balancing act, and now, years later, here I am, writing about money while soaking my feet in a tub of hot water and Epsom salts.
Is this gendered? Probably, unfortunately. “Fashion” was not introduced to me as a traditional male virtue, James Bond, Frank Sinatra, and other well-dressed dandies aside. Maybe it’s also generational: I’m part of Generation Hoodie, along with Adam Sandler and (pre-bro) Mark Zuckerberg. Men are from Old Navy, Women are from Neiman Marcus.
And yet…I struggle with money, whether or not I have any in the bank. I budget but then I walk past a record store and, boom, fifty bucks gone! There’s a part of me that would empty my savings to buy a tricked-out barbecue grill, a purchase that would make my wife pause for many reasons, one of which being we live in an apartment and don’t have a backyard.
The irony is that my old man bought off-the-rack suits from Sears but took care of them as if they were made from the rarest of silks. He accessorized with modest but stylish watches and cufflinks, and he always smelled like middle-shelf cologne, which didn’t sting the nostrils like bottles of Aqua Velva did. He took care of his shoes, too, polishing them every night. He’d have been bemused by the sight of my falling-apart kicks. ”You get what you pay for” was one of his many hoary Dad-isms.
Meanwhile, my mom was a master of thrift-store shopping, but for her, the game wasn’t just about finding bargains; it was about finding pricey, tossed-aside clothes, lamps, and knick-knacks for little to no money. I remember in the late 80s, in middle school, I went through a vest phase. It was during a brief period in my adolescence when I was really feeling myself, and I thought I looked pretty damned cool in grey, pin-striped suit vests. Don’t worry, this was a month or so long delusion. But one day, triumphantly, my mom returned from Treasure Trove, a local thrift store, with a fine vest that she assured me was worth a small fortune. She made sure to show me how well-made it was, and examined the fabrics and seams and she tried, in that moment, to teach me that clothes, like anything, are only worth what they’re made of, and the skill that went into them.
One of the hilarious ironies of growing up is accepting that you are the sum of your parents’ quirks and virtues while at the same time a unique and singular human being. I didn’t have my parents’ hardscrabble upbringing, and, as an adult, while I have struggled financially, I’m currently, more or less, solvent, with a few shekels left over at the end of the month. And yet, genes are time machines, and when I look at my bank account, I’m transported to thrift store aisles, and the sales racks at TJ Maxx, and the store that sold day-old breads and cakes, and I ask myself, reflectively, “Do I have enough money?” I worry, of course, that the answer will always be “no,” no matter my income. My dad, born during the bleak Great Depression, lives inside me, wanting and worried.
It’s not that cheapskates are unlikeable, it’s that no one respects them. Being prudent? Economical? Living within your means? That’s challenging for some, but it’s admirable and necessary. But cheapskates are thoughtless; they don’t understand the value of anything, and understanding the value of things — knowing what is worth your time and money and what is not—is a highly underrated life skill.
I have never spent money on clothes, much to the horror of my many wonderful past partners and my current wife, who insists I have more than two pairs of jeans. (“But my love,” I protest, “all a man needs is jeans for the day and the night.”) I like to think I’m averse to coughing up dollars for nice shirts and shoes because I’m practical, a real salt-of-the-earth type, but I know the reasons are more complex, and those reasons include various insecurities. I often mistake stoicism for anxiety.
I have always been, as the old saying goes, “penny-wise and pound-foolish.” I’ve always been a fan of that aphorism because it’s so British, it’s like something a chimney sweep would say. I’m not actually saving money by avoiding my local sneaker shop.
And here I am, in my early fifties, putting my paws up to “Bad Romance,” trying to pretend that I’m not in pain. I want to be the sort of person who can learn new tricks no matter how old they get, and that’s just what happened: I learned a new trick. As we hobbled home after the show, I turned to my wife and said, “I’m going to go shoe shopping.”
I have two pairs now. They’re swanky and comfy, and I spent hundreds of dollars, but I still refuse to buy a new iPhone. I’ll be fine with the cracked screen, at least for the next few years.
John DeVore is an award-winning writer and editor whose funny/sad memoir about grief, friendship and jazz hands, Theatre Kids, is now available.