A few years ago, I was sitting in a meeting at work when my boss started talking about “those weird little people who heat up their Tupperware in the microwave at lunchtime.” That afternoon, as I surreptitiously snuck forkfuls of leftover Taco salad into my mouth from my own plastic container — thank God it didn’t have to be heated! — I vowed to stop brown-bagging whenever I could.
This was no small feat, financially or psychologically. I come from a long line of lunch-packers, my grandfather having gone so far as to reuse one paper bag for months, perhaps years, at a time. I also lived in an expensive city (New York) and worked in an ostentatious business (magazine publishing) on a pretty small salary. And yet, as I became more relaxed with my new $9-a-day lunch habit, I rationalized it as a status symbol or a career move. I was a person who bought my lunch every day; therefore, I was someone to be taken seriously.
Now, of course, such a scenario is laughable. These days, it’s precisely parading that plastic container around the office at midday that shows that you’re resourceful, that you’re rolling with the times, that you’re cool in a do-it-yourself recession-y kind of way.
In fact, frugal living is the new glamorous — haven’t you heard? The haves have finally been granted access to the one club the have-nots had owned exclusively, and they’ve turned it into a fabulous party. Enter the “recessionista.” Whereas a year ago this person may have attended the gala du jour in a brand new designer frock, she’s now wearing one recycled from the back of her closet. She is learning to cook at home — maybe even from vintage Depression-era recipes! And she’s conspicuous about her non-conspicuous, discount-store, coupon-carrying consumption. She’s a cousin, perhaps, to the type of person who totes a “This is Not a Plastic Bag” bag, except that, rather than crusading sanctimoniously for the environment, she’s crusading for her own cultural relevance.
I doubt that I’m the only one who has trouble taking all this seriously. And to be honest, I find myself bitterly thinking “Hey, get off my turf!” far more frequently than I’d care to admit.
Perhaps it’s because, coming of age in the recession of the early ’90s on the wrong side of Connecticut (such a place does exist), I’ve always been conscious of money — having it, not having it, the tendency of those who don’t have much to size up those who have a lot. Perhaps it’s also because, justly or unjustly, I partly blame the CEO and banker- types for getting us into this mess to start with. So the fact that they’re jumping onto the penny-pinching bandwagon just at the moment when we actually really need them to spend makes the recessionista trend particularly painful.
That ridiculous term itself — recessionista — started appearing last fall. Banks had collapsed, bailouts had come through, layoffs were escalating. And there were the magazines, the newspapers, the news stations proclaiming that you could still be a fashionista, even in these tough times. Just follow a few key tips. And while you’re at it, pick up these dresses and shoes and bags and electronic wine bottle openers — they’re a STEAL.
The advice doesn’t stop there. We’ve been told to go shopping in our closets. Cute — but what does it mean? That I should — heavens, no! — re-wear an outfit that I’ve worn before? The real problem is that, the more ubiquitous this advice becomes, the trendier it seems, and the more people who don’t really need to worry about spending stop spending.
When it comes down to it, if you need to be told that packing your lunch saves money, you’re probably not someone who needs to pack your lunch. So please don’t pretend that you are.
For those of us in the middle who were hovering just a tad too far above our means, perhaps this chic hyperbole can, at the very least, serve as a good reminder of gravity. Recently, I finished a loaf of bread before it went stale for the first time in years, thanks to my resurrected peanut butter sandwich habit. My brown-bagging grandfather, were he still alive, would be proud. Then he’d ask me why, gosh darnit, I hadn’t been packing my lunch all along. Did I think I was rich or something?
