A friend of a friend recently coined the term “the privileged poor,” for those
who have learned to live well on less.
Our group includes teachers, free-lance writers, editors, temps, the
underemployed artist underclass. We are
used to getting a bargain, shopping at thrift stores, and, in retrospect, had
the traits of “recessionistas” before the recession hit. Wiktionary (we’re not in the “real”
dictionaries yet) defines the recessionista as “a person who is able to stick
to a tight budget while still managing to dress stylishly.” Recessionistas, I imagine, also like to have
a good time—otherwise why bother dressing well?
On my recent trip to New York, to give a reading on Staten Island, I
learned that even the members of the frugal artist class, the girl-gang with whom
I run, have tightened their belts—the ones they’ve found at Salvation
Army. Any nervousness I had about
over-spending in NY “to keep up with the Janes” was quickly erased. I flew into NYC on a free frequent flier ticket,
took the AirTrain from Newark ($15) and only spent $6 on a Metrocard my whole trip.
I stayed with a friend for the first two
nights —a fellow recessionista who cooked amazing omelets rather than order
takeout, as we did on my visits in the past. She found us a $42 (less than what
it would cost me had I taken a cab from Newark)
hour-long massage in the east village. Recessionistas still like to treat themselves, if possible. And our “massage” was really “body work” as
the women who work in the storefront aren’t licensed. There was no face-cradle, just a paper towel
over the sheet. There were no showers, no
coat hangers or hooks for your clothes, no private rooms—just curtains between
massage tables. But the women who worked
there were strong and amazing and walked on our backs. It was the best “body work” I ever had.
Later
that night we went to see another friend in Brooklyn
who had just furnished her stylish apartment with furniture she’d bought on
Craigslist. We supplied ice cream, wine,
and flowers. She made us a salad with
tuna and green beans and vinaigrette. It was delicious—and cost barely anything
compared to a restaurant.
The Staten Island reading was hosted by a most
glamorous recessionista who treated me to Starbucks, then bought us water (for
the reading) at the gas station next door, avoiding the overpriced ethos water
at Starbucks. The recessionistas I know
do what they can to help the poor—and many a recessionista I know give to
charities, donate their time and used items to various organizations. The recessionistas I know are aware of their
“privilege” and know they are not truly “poor,” as so many in our country and
in the world are. But they may not fully
trust the impact they can make buying overpriced ethos water.
The
next day I went to the movies—no matinee prices, I’m afraid, in Manhattan —with another friend. Pre-recession I might have splurged on a
fountain drink—just for the ice. This
time I smuggled in diet
coke for us, and we helped ourselves to straws from the
concession stand. We had
dinner — hamburgers—and lingered in a restaurant for hours talking.
I
hadn’t been to the movies in a very long time and just joined Netflix as part
of my recessionista-plan. I recently watched
Sex in the City, the movie, again, to see if it was as terrible as I thought it
was the first time around. It was, I’m
afraid. And now the movie also seems
terribly dated and even obscene. As a
writer myself, I was always knew Carrie’s great TV apartment and shoe-buying
prowess was a crock (no pun intended, as she would never wear Crocs.) I was willing to go with it because the show
was so culturally interesting. But the
movie is so “let them eat cake” with its shameless consumerism that when I
watched it again, in light of the recent economic downturn, I was truly
offended. “Women come to New York for the two
L's: Labels and Love.” I don’t think
so. That’s not why I came to New York on this trip—and that’s not why I came to New York in 1985 and
lived there for thirteen years.
The
final night I stayed at a small boutique hotel—a treat indeed—that I paid for
with the honorarium I received in Staten Island. There was a complimentary breakfast the next
morning where I met another friend before she headed off to work. Though we were happy to pay for her
breakfast, as we noshed away, we realized the wait staff thought we were both
staying in the hotel. Well, what
recessionista could resist? I left a
generous tip. On my walk around the
Village, before heading out the airport, I saw a great tee shirt in the window
of Urban Outfitters which read “Broke is the New Black.” I walked in, ready to buy it. But it was $24! It didn’t even have sleeves. I’m going to check online every once in a
while to see if it goes on sale.
— DD (Hollywood, FL)