I’m worried about the writers I used to know.
Two decades ago, I was wildly envious. At 26 I lived a pinched and frugal life in a shabby first-ring suburb of Minneapolis. I shopped at big-box grocery stores, washed my own car and rarely went on trips. If our family did take a vacation it was to the Black Hills and in order to save money I made peanut butter sandwiches in our discount hotel. My mother and mother-in-law pitched in with clothes for our two, and then three, children. My now ex-husband and I went out—to dinner or a play, but never both—perhaps once a month.
But the literary people I knew, mostly 5-10 years older, enjoyed far more exotic and comfortable circumstances. Their lives looked like so much fun! To start, they had homes in the city: older houses with character and charm that required tons of maintenance and demanded huge tax payments. They shopped at the co-op with its beautiful, jewel-like vegetables and paid $100 for a small cloth bag of groceries. There was always good wine and fresh flowers. They’d all been to Paris and Prague and Nicaragua; I’d been to … South Dakota. Also Disneyland, once, when I was a kid.
I spent a lot of time in my late 20s and early 30s feeling self-conscious: avoiding talk of travel at parties and failing to reciprocate dinner invitations because I didn’t want anyone seeing our monster Cheerios boxes and garage sales dishes. When I was home with my husband and children, I was mostly content. But there were times when my envy turned into resentment and a striving for something better. We’d attend a dinner where the host wore flowing scarves she’d bought from a street market in Turkey and served succulent lamb on a sparkling buffet. And rather than appreciate the evening out, I’d stew on the way home. What were we doing wrong? I wondered. Sometimes, I would turn to my husband and ask.
There were other problems in our marriage, some of which I’ve disclosed before. But the fact is, my constant wanting didn’t help. I itched to see new places, to smell the spices of a Moroccan souk and hear the jangle of yak bells in Tibet. These were the stories my colleagues told while we sat in their classic Room & Board living rooms. And I hung on their every word. But my ex would be bored, thinking only of home and bed and maybe one more late-night beer.
When I wrote The Forever Marriage, about a young woman who marries into wealth, I thought nothing could be further from my experience. But that’s not true. Carmen yearns for more than her easy life. In her very kind review in the Star Tribune, Cindy Wolfe Boynton called Carmen “a woman who, like so many of us, has spent too much time wishing for what she doesn’t have, and not enough time appreciating what she does.” I’m glad this spoke to Boynton, and to other women. Because it certainly describes the younger me.
Interestingly, the woman I supposedly based Carmen on—my friend who was stuck in a loveless marriage—did none of this desperately wanting more. It’s one of the things I most admired about her, and love about her still. She lives stylishly but in very simple ways. A tiny, colorful house; secondhand clothes; weekend trips to Northern Minnesota with coolers full of homemade coleslaw and locally-brewed beer.
Eventually I made peace with reality and the craven want slowly dulled. It’s only in the last few years, with John, that I’ve had any of the things I so desired at 26. And yes, I admit, the wholesome food and occasional European vacation DO make life nicer. But all that time spent lusting after opulent houses? Totally wasted. Our “retirement” plan involves living cheaply so we can both save and travel. Today I entertain in a tiny apartment with no dining room, located right back in that shabby suburb where I started. And I do so with pride.
Many of my old friends are doing the same, cutting back on housing expenses or luxuries in order to make this new post-recession economy work. But others are not. They’re living as they did before—fresh-cut flowers and four-star hotels—because it’s the only way they know. They aren’t saving, because they can’t; every dime that comes in must immediately go out. And they appear to employ a collective magical thinking about the future: No matter how many times they’re told what they’ll need to survive their 60s, 70s, 80s and possibly 90s, they turn away.
A professor of economics, opining in yesterday’s New York Times, called our national approach to retirement “ridiculous,” saying most people are not capable of preparing for 30 years of living off their own savings. And I agree, but not only for the reasons she cited. There is also this:
The people I’m seeing have spent their entire adult lives collecting experiences and living for the moment. And for the most part, IT’S ALWAYS WORKED OUT. They’ve been conditioned to believe that no matter how dire things seem, something will save them. Unemployment, a government bailout, social security. They’re bewildered by how abrupt and cold the world has gotten. They blame politicians and bankers (both of whom, don’t get me wrong, deserve heaps of blame….) They do exactly the same things that have yielded positive results for the past 25 years.
I still, truth be told, feel envious of their young adult lives. Those carefree wandering years of backpacking and hiking and learning different languages. But I do not covet the situations they find themselves in now, relying on family to cover their bills, shuffling their credit card balances, and wondering in the quiet, ticking early morning hours how they’ll survive old age.
I loved your essay which, by the way, is spot on.
This is so true, and so smart. Maybe we’re just conditioned to be envious, regardless of our situation. When I was first starting out, I worked full time and wrote at night and on weekends. I spent so much time envying my classmates/other writers who wrote all day and didn’t work–or freelanced (occasionally), or taught. Thirty-odd years later, I’m still frustrated that I have to work and write rather than being able to write full-time, although now I work 4 days/week rather than 5. I’ve done this for so long, I’ve made peace with my lot (sort of) and (full disclosure) I’m happy to have a pension and 401(k). The next time we talk and I bitch about my job, remind me, please, that I’m employed, have skills, and for better or worse, some sort of plan. Then tell me to shut up.
Ann, I relate to this so much. In my late 40s, I have just started a retirement account. I spent my 30s in a loveless marriage with a wealthy man who kept all the money separate and I never thought to save because I figured I’d be taken care of. WRONG. I spent the better part of my 40s, post-divorce, as a single mom, and still not saving. I rationalized by telling myself I couldn’t save becasue it was so expensive to raise kids where I live — and it is. But the truth was that I didn’t want to alter my appearances because I was afraid of looking “less than” my affluent friends. When I remarried I insisted we buy a house, which promptly lost value. I would do anything to have the money back and be living in apartment. It amazes me, in hindsight, that I put so much value on being a homeowner. I work full-time now, write when I can, and am lucky to have paid health insurance and a retirement plan. Thanks for this amazing reminder of acceptance and the perils of envy.
Is not maturing a wonderful thing? So many people wish to be young again, but I don’t. I was so naive and had so many foolish ‘wants’. With Age comes experience; one can appreciate the true valuable things in life.
like you said :
“Eventually I made peace with reality and the craven want slowly dulled. It’s only in the last few years, with John, that I’ve had any of the things I so desired at 26. And yes, I admit, the wholesome food and occasional European vacation DO make life nicer. But all that time spent lusting after opulent houses? Totally wasted.”
Now you are mature enough to appreciate the important people you do have and those fabulous material things you can now afford are nice to have but are not your driving force.
here here to maturity and getting not only older but wiser. Great piece Ann.
Indeed, this is a great piece Ann.
I too, was self-conscious in my 20s, 30s, and even my 40s. Many of my peers acquired the beautiful homes, cars, clothes, and vacations to Greece and Australia. A part of me wished for those experiences. I could afford none of them.
Instead, I kept the slow, steady pace of my life. Now I watch my peers quickly failing mental and physical health. They’ve paid a steep price to acquire those things. Now, as you’ve expressed, many are moving away from acquisition.
My wish is that they can recoup those acquisitions that hold true value.
This reminds me of my youngest daughter. She does have a house of her own, but she chooses to drive an older car and save in other ways to allow herself a couple of trips out of the country each year.
She also has a stable retirement plan. Maybe she learned from my mistakes.
Good piece, as usual.
Ann, you are my Anna Quindlin. Beautiful writing
and always spot on.
Hi Ann,
I’ve been reading your blog since I discovered your writing on Salon.com a few months ago. This post really struck me, although in a slightly different way than one may expect – I turned 25 last month, and two months before that, I lost my mother to a sudden neurological condition that took less than a year to do its work.
Now I find myself feeling envy and even resentment toward many people my own age, because like you did, I feel I have little in common with them anymore. And it’s hard to be mad at someone for _not_ suffering the same way. I’m fortunate enough to have saved enough money to not live hand-to-mouth, and I also am lucky that I don’t have children or a spouse depending on me, but I do have to watch my budget since I live away from my family and support myself, since I have to put myself through school and I feel there is not much time for “fun” and certainly not for the freedom of travel I long for, but looks so foreign to me in my current grief. I also _want more_ of what my friends have – their freedom, their carefree outlooks, the financial support from their families, and most of all, I envy them their mothers and want my own back.
I want to thank you for your moving article. I feel that, like you, I have matured to see the things in life that really are important, and also, it feels incredibly reassuring to have those other wants recognized. We are human, after all.
-Hannah
Thank you for writing, Hannah. I love your perspective on my essay…and I’m so sorry about your loss.
I don’t know exactly how you’re feeling, but I was around your age when I was told that my oldest son has autism. I was horrified and extremely jealous of every mother I saw who had a “normal” child. Over the years, I realized there was nothing to envy. My son was perfect as he was. Of course, there IS something to envy in having one’s mother, so there’s no equating our situations. But I just wanted to let you know that I understand in some small way.
And I’m very glad you’re following me.
xx,
Ann
Thank you for writing this. Lately, when i feel ‘craven want’ or unhinged jealousy, it’s a reminder that I am forgetting what is valuable about myself and my life.
Your post is a reminder that the feelings do not stay.