Hold on 'til Friday.

I have never understood money—I've just never been around it. When I have, the amount never had more than a couple zeros behind it.

Growing up, I was very aware that we were poor. But, it didn't seem out of the norm for me. I thought everyone lived life the way we did. That, as kids, it was totally common to feel shame and guilt when our parents were at the cash register— especially if they were paying for something we had asked for. Didn't everyone get a slight sweat and ball of anxiety in their tummy when they had to ask for school supplies, or money for a field trip?

Even prior to their divorce, my parents just couldn't seem to keep their finances straight. Simply put, they were a mess. They really tried, but neither of them ever ironed out their money issues, even after we had grown up.

When my father died, he had two guitars, a box of knickknacks and letters, an old F150 truck that was almost as dead as he was, and one paycheck left to his name. He had six kids.

The blunt and unfortunate obituary of a poor man.

My mother was constantly being told she was irresponsible with her money. Her brothers and father constantly came down on her for not being able to "manage" her finances. The problem in actuality was that there simply wasn't enough money to manage. All that money had a home once payday came.

When and if she needed help, she knew that she would have to go through a personal and then very public shaming. Thanksgiving, birthdays, Christmas... There was never a wasted opportunity to bring up the fact that Bea didn't know what she was doing. I would watch from the other end of the table, waiting for the berating to be over. Knowing that she worked really hard and hardly ever gave to herself, and they couldn't understand what they didn't really know. All her money went to us.

My mom's bruised ego and pride got in the way. We easily qualified for free lunch at school, and more than likely for government aid. We would ask her every year to sign the forms for lunch, but she would flat out refuse to stoop to that level of neediness. I remember those mornings I would walk into her room quietly as she slept to hunt for lunch money. Most of the times it was in quarters on her nightstand, or just non-existent. Sometimes I wouldn't even bother asking because I just knew there was none. I remember my grandma writing us checks here and there to help clear our cafeteria balances from the negative, just so we could rack up the charges again. Some days I just didn't even eat if I had asked too many friends for a dollar that week already.

By the time I was 19, I had three jobs and was going to school, and somehow never managed to save a dime. I worked because that was what I had seen my whole family do... Work, work work. The whole "not having money" thing just made sense to me. You earn a little bit, use it for what you need, you have none left over. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

I would sleep downstairs on the couch after a late shift at my restaurant job, with my serving shirt thrown on the other couch. One by one, my mom, my dad, my sister, would walk down the stairs on their way out and ask me for 5, 10, or 20 dollars. I would sleepily direct them to my serving shirt with its pocket full of cash. By the time I had actually woken up for my next day of work, yesterday's earnings were just about cleared out.

After quite some time, I had finally managed to save my first $1,000.00. It was very short lived.

As soon as I walked into the house, I lent $500 to a family member.

It was then, at that moment, that I realized I would never have money. I decided that I would try, but that I couldn't wish for too much. A stable life was out of the question for me. Being able to afford rent on my own one day was unfathomable, and being someone worthy of a decent income was out of reach. I didn't even know what a reasonable income was— how could I even expect to have it someday?

I moved in with my boyfriend around the age of 21 and had just totaled my car. My new car payment was sky rocket high, not to mention the full coverage car insurance. I didn't speak up about how I couldn't afford rent, but I tried my best to hang with this older man who made at least three times what I did. I ran myself into credit card debt simply trying to feed myself. I bought work clothes and shoes with those lines of credit. I would desperately pay my car insurance with one of those cards in a pinch. I juggled bills, got slammed with late fees, and was the ultimate overdraft queen. As such, I should be remembered in the halls of Wells Fargo for centuries to come. *pats crown*

During my reign as said queen, I allowed myself to be royally taken advantage of by an employer. I made $9 an hour, teaching dance lessons in a studio right above a Tiffany's store. Private lessons were $185, so the math was wasn't really mathing. But what did I know?

I paid $16 a day to park for months until they finally gave me a parking pass. I learned 6 months later from a coworker that they had forgotten to change my pay rate to at least $11.25/hr. I entered my managers office in tears, because I literally could not afford to work there. Their solution was to offer me extra hours to work on my days off to make up for it. And you can bet your bottom dollar I agreed to work more hours for the men that were underpaying me for months! *clown emoji*

Before I made the decision to become a full time dance teacher, I said to my family, "If I'm gonna be broke, I'm at least gonna be broke and happy." After that, I was very broke and sometimes happy. Mostly lost in the hustle. The constant struggle for money didn't really allow a whole lot of room for happiness, and second jobs were the only way I could afford to be broke.

Then came love. Then came marriage. Then came the baby in the baby carriage.

My marriage was a financial mess. I mistook his stories of being poor during childhood as a sort of shared history between us. I learned too late that my sense of urgency and literal fear of being unable to feed myself one day was not a shared side effect. My ex's kind of poor was and is different than mine; through his family deaths he will receive money, real estate, heirlooms... Through my family deaths, I am only set to inherit the leftover receipts inside an old F150 and possibly even debt.

There was a very short time frame in which I had $10,000 in my bank account, and even that was because of fluke circumstances. My vehicle had been totaled and I received $6,000.00 to cover the loss. The other $4,000 came from actually having a decent income from unemployment during the pandemic. That money was eventually split between me and my ex, and my half of the savings were depleted when I got my own place.

After being somewhat financially "stable" and on my own for about a year, I still had no real money saved, despite my 13 hour workdays. I had nothing to show for all the years I had put in, and I missed being with my son. I was neglecting myself and losing my mind being something for everyone else all the time. What good was this life if I only got to pay for it, but never got to live it? It seemed like it didn't make a difference whether I worked hard or not. The results remained the same. So, I once again made that familiar, scary and pivotal decision to be broke and "happy" again. Only this time, with no support system but myself.

These days though, I am well rested. I wake up to baby snuggles. I cook dinner most nights, and go to bed at 7:30pm. I hike. I take long showers. I lay in bed without always feeling like I should be doing something because there will be no time later, because, there is time. Plenty of it. But there is so much fear... My poor person bones are shaking living in this one-job world I've decided to live in. I've bought myself and my son the most expensive gift I can't really afford: Time. And man, am I paying the price.

I wish I could tell you that this short story about being a penniless fool had a happy ending or some sharp turn around, but it doesn't. It sits somewhere between humorously poor and miserably poor. It's not even an ending, because based on the average human lifespan, I could be less than halfway through the rest of my life. More than half a lifetime left to pay rent each month. More than half a lifetime left to keep buying groceries to feed myself. More than half a lifetime to keep living in this capitalistic world, and more than half a lifetime to try to save up to even afford death.

I recently regained the title of "Overdraft Queen", with Truist Bank as my new kingdom. I'm conquering the American banks, what can I say?

Just last week, during what felt like the longest countdown to payday, I was lucky enough to find some singles laying on a side table. I only expected to find 2 or 3 laying around, but when I discovered there were 18 whole dollars, I almost cried and peed myself at the same time. Without those random singles, I wouldn't have been able to buy the gas it would take to make it to work the next day. This is the kind of irony that Alanis really should have been singing about.

Before I stumbled across those extra ones, I was beating myself up about getting fries with my double cheeseburger from McDonald's earlier. Those fries could have made the difference between a quarter tank of gas or half a tank of gas. I'm laughing about it now, but the pity I felt for myself at that moment was so deep, I didn't think I'd find my way out. How had I not gained an inch in this world?

I had given my best years to the workforce, but still sat in the financial gutter. I worked so hard all the time— just like my grandma taught me. I did what I was told, and then some. If I had pulled up my bootstraps any higher, they would be up my ass.

I don't really know what life is all about anymore, but I guess if it's all the same, I'll keep on hiking and snuggling my baby. Looking down into the empty well that is my wallet and shrugging, holding on 'til Friday.

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