Another day for the record books.
The morning project went swimmingly. Day went downhill midway through. Saved the day with a “Mini Spa-cation” package at the local Marriott, which was a 20-minute massage, 20-minute facial and another 10 minutes in the sauna. Beauteous.
Genius got out of her relaxed state when she jumped in the car and slammed straight into another one. *sigh*
I’m OK. Not relaxed anymore, but OK. Car’s fine. Maybe if I ever get money to fix the air-conditioning, as it is SUCH a joy to drive in the 94-degree Florida heat with NO AIR, I’ll get the newest batch of white paint off my car. But it matches so nicely with all the other white paint I’ve acquired over the years, really, it’s no big deal anymore.
But the real kicker today was when I got in the elevator at my new apartment building with a couple of guys. They hit the second floor. I hit the penthouse button and just felt so weird about it, like, what the hell am I doing with a penthouse when I was born and raised as close to the bottom of middle class as is humanly allowed?
It occurred to me when there was another move taking place on the day I arrived here, how the other people’s movers were killing themselves to pick me up. I was dumb enough to give my number to one of them. And he has called and texted every frackin’ day.
I guess I was in a state where I was feeling ballsy and bold … and hey, moving into a new place, I thought my social life was turning around on the very first day. 😉 But when rationality prevailed (a half-hour later. Damn), I realized that people must think I’m rolling in cash or something, to have a beachside penthouse.
They clearly don’t know that ALL my money is going into renting right now!
This is a very weird place for me right now. I’ve always been the poor friend who didn’t have enough money to go out to eat, to buy a car, to live in a nice neighborhood, to be able to afford a concert ticket or to go out with the gang as regularly as they liked to go out.
And as I’ve started to earn better wages, I *could* go out more but never had the time.
And here I am, doing well enough to support myself and my mother (although I pray to God I don’t have to do it for much longer. Two-plus years is quite enough, thanks), and it occurs to me that I’ve risen to maybe the middle of the middle class. Maybe even upper-middle-class.
It’s just freaky, you know? I don’t have a square to spare right now. But once I recover from my current financial nightmare and get back on track, and Mom actually gets herself a job or something, I guess I have to start watching out for people who are only out to take advantage of what they think I might have. (Which isn’t much, if you look at my 15-year-old furniture, what’s left of it!)
I wonder if I will always feel like the poor kid. I wonder if I’ll ever feel like, “Hell yeah, I work HARD to afford this penthouse, bitchez!” I mean, I DO. But in my head, there’s a small war going on, between “who the hell do you think you are?” and “hey, other people this age have husbands and kids and since you have NOTHING to show for your 35 years, enjoy the condo!”
So yeah, I have an oceanfront condo on a prestigious island. But I can’t afford the gas to put into my dented-up car. The good news is, I’ll never get a swelled head at this rate. 🙂