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Emailed my mom because I finally admitted to myself I need to ask for money again, the third time in the past decade. Painted out that we don’t own a car, we don’t have kids, we never travel outside the city except to visit you and Dad, we don’t have a mortgage and the monthly condo fees are much less than rent would be on a smaller apartment. I’m living through an economic crisis and married to someone on disability, and we’re two people trying to get by on one-and-a-half incomes.
Intellectually, I know the above to be perfectly true, but I still feel like some upper-class twit in a Victorian novel who, having run out of things to hock, must once again admit to his guardians that he’s boozed and gambled away his quarterly allowance; except if I were a feckless 19th-century nobleman I’d probably feel a lot more brazen, nstead of dreading Mom’s response— even worse, if she doesn’t call or email back within the hour I’m going to have to telephone her. Feeling sick to my stomach.
Intellectually, I know the above to be perfectly true, but I still feel like some upper-class twit in a Victorian novel who, having run out of things to hock, must once again admit to his guardians that he’s boozed and gambled away his quarterly allowance; except if I were a feckless 19th-century nobleman I’d probably feel a lot more brazen, nstead of dreading Mom’s response— even worse, if she doesn’t call or email back within the hour I’m going to have to telephone her. Feeling sick to my stomach.
