Eat the Rich

I’ve been taking a teaspoon of honey before bed and I think the result has been some really vivid dreams.

I never really used to remember my dreams and, for a while, I wondered if that was a sign of going a little crazy — until I realized that there were a lot of other things that can do the job more effectively.

Most of my dreams have been more like memories but with alternate endings and the occasional blooper reel. With the fish-out-of-water thing being my waking existence (with no end in sight, by the way), I’ve come to rely on that teaspoon of honey as my nocturnal escape.

I started to consider why I’ve been dreaming of my life so far as opposed to dreams rife with weird symbolism (falling into a tidal wave while eating your teeth, anyone?) and realized that most of what I’d scorned or ridiculed for most of my misspent youth has come back to haunt me: I’m living the life I’d tried to avoid.

Growing up in a small suburban town, many of my friends were, shall we say, less “well-off” as my family. Before you think that I was born with a silver spoon, I must add that my dad had to work his ass off for almost 15 years before he started to “make it”. Factor in that my parents were married for 8 years before they had me and that places me in the early years of elementary school.

So when we started to be able to afford things like a color TV or new clothes at the beginning of the school year, my sister and I were, to our shame, branded as “rich”.

Ironic, in a sense, how “rich” is something derogatory when you’re a kid but also something you’ll aspire to be for the rest of your adult life.

The other kids lived in apartments or rented houses and, in most cases, both parents worked. Their homes always seemed to be cluttered and smelled like warmed leftovers. If their parents had a car, it was a used one.

Through those formative years, classmates came and went as families moved because of a job, or because they couldn’t afford to stay where they were. When I would visit them at home I was struck by the contrast to the way we were living: my mother was spending money as fast as my dad earned it on “decorating”, and so our house started to stand in stark contrast to the homes of my friends’.

By the time my parents had the entire property landscaped with rocks, trees, wood benches and a brick backyard, it was hard to hide the fact that my dad did OK and we lived pretty well.

My original career path was chosen more because I thought I’d make a lot of money and continue to live in the bubble of vapid materialism to which I’d grown accustomed; but the small-town rebel in me veered off-course and I ended up “following my bliss”.

Bliss. What a fucking joke.

The truth turned out to be that all the stuff that money could buy was to fill the void that existed both within and between my parents. They had a strained relationship, but as long as there was shit to buy things weren’t so bad. To each his/her own … addiction.

So now I live in a tiny apartment that’s always cluttered with papers, clothes and toys, and I struggle to make ends meet. I had a used car until a few months ago, but am now financing a new one — the logic being that the cost of repairs to keep the used one on the road could be the monthly cost of paying off a new one.

Exchanging gifts with people is both a financial strain as well as a much more conservative obligation than had been the over-the-top extravaganzas of Christmases and birthdays from my youth.

I’m in debt — about as much as most people, I guess. I don’t like my job, but I need it to pay the bills. My relationship is strained, but I notice that whenever we have a few extra dollars to buy something — to “treat ourselves” — it’s like an intangible salve is put on the open wound of disappointment felt by both of us.

Karma? Why, yes, thank you.