Seems to me, my friends and I now represent poordom with a twist. We are the freshly graduated folk inducted into a recession-filled world where nobody wants us, yet everyone expects us to save face without hinting at our struggles. We are the all-too-proud, far-from-street-saavy masses trudging into The Real World armed with only our parent-given laptops and Savers-purchased threads to hold us together.
We are the people who will cut you off on your way to dump your fast food tray, in hopes that we can snag that Pull-N-Peel Instant Winner you neglected to examine before it makes its way to the bottom of the trash can. (Not that that'll stop us.) We are the ones you’ll see at the trendy coffee shops, ordering a solo shot of espresso, which will be chased with the Sweet-N-Low packet we swiped from the local diner a few months ago as we sat sipping tap water, watching our still-in-college pals binge on their work-study profits. We’re the souls who will endure the radio station plugs 80x per song if it means we don’t owe anyone a harsh $1.29 for that tune that keeps tormenting our ears with its brilliant bridge and catchy chorus.
As of late, I have been not been above swiping unopened milk cartons from elementary student’s snack breaks and will readily admit I’ve coveted the fruits and veggies those students are given as they walk through the doors of "my" classroom. I am the student teacher who relished in Back-To-School shopping out of my roomate’s closet and rejoiced after the discovery of a $7 thrift store outfit that could actually pass for dressy, so long as you can ignore the saggy butt and overly taut shoulders…
I am the girl who -- just today -- actually pocketed the 60 cents my cooperative teacher lent me for a soda from the vending machine, and, instead, put it toward an investment in a 30-minute dryer cycle at the Laundromat. I am the girl who no longer collects heads-up pennies for luck, but for the dollar-menu fry from the arches that refuse to quit their tempting. I am the girl who pages through magazines at the local bookstore and saves free sampler codes to a text message draft in order to avoid the $3 cost of the magazine itself.
Am I the face of the new poor? The one who has never had to do without, and, therefore, spends my dwindling funds in erroneous ways, shrouded in impulse and a need to continue a lifestyle that I can no longer afford.
I am the latest host of the pity-party to be held in the bowels of a shitty economy. A self-proclaimed victim of this recession.
Hear me whimper.
Hear me roar…
Watch me pretend nothing has changed.
