‘I believed that if the cash ever dried up, I could always live in a car’

Wanting for little but a lost $20

Ilost a $20 bill at the gym this morning, a fact I’ve managed to work into almost every conversation I’ve had since. I suppose I’m hoping this will speak of my courage, demonstrate how I continue to live a relatively normal life in the aftermath of such trauma.

In my retelling, though, I omit how I returned to the gym a half-hour later, arms flapping, asking in a voice set to one of the higher, hysterical octaves whether anyone had found my money. Also edited from the story is how I circled the barbell area like a neurotic vulture, praying someone might produce the lost bill and make the nightmare end. Instead, I keep my comments brief, my manner stoic.

“It’s only money,” I say, pretending to casually pick a hind molar.

But I can share with you, dear reader, the truth: In my opinion, money is no more “just money” than a rose is just a rose. (Have you ever seen those blue ones? They’re fabulous.)

My feelings about money began to change this year, after I got married. Before then, I believed that if the cash ever dried up, I could always live in a car — gussy up the dashboard with doilies, potted plants and radio awards.

But with a wife, that plan doesn’t seem as feasible. I want to make her proud of me, and I don’t know if such a thing is possible while bathing in a car trunk. (Also, with a wife, I’d need a van. And a van was never the plan.)

It’s not like I need a lot of money, but some money is good. In fact, I can happily eat rice and beans every day and, at various points in my life, I have. To be honest, I still tend to think of my savings in terms of the cans of beans I can buy. So in a sense, my money does keep me warm at night, warm with thoughts of beans — doing a backstroke in a heated kidney-shaped pool full of kidney beans.

Of course, I am not without vanity and often need to reassure myself that I have qualities one cannot attach a dollar sign to. So when spending time with those wealthier than I am, I tell myself I’m happier than they are. I tend to laugh more in their company, really making a grand effort to whoop it up. But I usually become ill because, for me, such behaviour requires copious amounts of alcohol. And you just know I’m not drinking the expensive, organic kind that doesn’t turn the stomach.

Some need top-shelf whiskey, two-car garages and walk-in closets — truly need these things. And, ascribing as I do to the Talmudic notion that some people simply need more than others, I do not judge them for it. But those who are lucky don’t need much at all. In this sense, I am lucky. The things money can buy don’t really excite me. Most important to me is the sense of security it can bring. And right now I’m dealing with $20 less security. But I am coping quite bravely, wouldn’t you say?