I’m 43. Money Is Tight. The New Status Symbol Is Saying “I’m Free.”

Born in ’83, 43, Money Is Tight, and the Scoreboard Changed

An old classmate posted on WeChat Moments. Instant coffee, two slices of toast. Caption: “Eating breakfast alone, saving quite a bit.” A dozen likes below.

I scrolled back to her posts from three years ago. Latte art in a café, filet mignon in a Western restaurant, a new bag. Back then the group chat could go on for ages. Now no one asks. Someone posted a link: vegetables are half off after 8 p.m. at the supermarket. Below it, a row of “Add me to the group.”

Last week I went to the supermarket. 8:20 p.m. Yellow tags in the produce section. I picked up two boxes of mushrooms and a bag of greens. Next to me, a man in work clothes was on the phone: “Don’t buy vegetables. I got discounted ribs here.” At the checkout, someone pulled out a stack of points coupons. The cashier scanned for a while and said, “Your tissues cost nothing.” The person smiled: “Saved them for three months.” I queued behind them, phone in hand. On the screen was a price-comparison page.

We used to brag about what we bought. Now we brag about what we didn’t.

Lao Zhou sold his car. A black SUV, washed until it shone, parked downstairs for five years. The day he sold it, he took a photo, sent it to the group, and said, “Subway from now on.” Someone asked, “Did you lose money?” He said, “Save the gas and parking, and it’s enough for my daughter’s swimming lessons for a year.” His daughter brought home the swimming class receipt last month. He stuck it on the fridge. Next to the receipt was the electricity bill. The number was circled in red. Someone in the group posted dinner, a table of dishes, over eight hundred. Someone below said, “That’s a week of groceries for my family.” No one argued. The one who posted replied, “Next time, group buy.”

A friend left a big tech company. Income cut in half. Gained about eleven pounds. She said she used to reply to messages even in her dreams. When the phone rang, her heart jumped into her throat. Now she sleeps until ten on weekends. Her husband said, “You used to come home like a ghost. Now you look like a person.” She reads with her child. The child asks, “Mom, are you not leaving today?” She says, “Not leaving.” The child turns the page. There’s a folded corner. She reaches over and smooths it.

She told me, “I used to think the company couldn’t survive without me. Later I found out, I leave, the company keeps turning. My family can’t. If I fall, the home collapses.” She was shelling peas while she said this. A pea dropped into the bowl. Plop. She didn’t look up.

Someone in the group asked, “What have you been busy with lately?” She said, “Nothing.” A row of envious emojis below. Someone asked, “How are you so free?” She said, “Earn less.” No one asked again.

A friend used to love arguing over details. If anyone in the group had a hole in their logic, she’d chase it down. Last year, she stopped. Someone posts a rumor, she sends a cat emoji. Someone argues right and wrong, she sends a cat emoji. I asked her, “You’re not angry anymore?” She said, “I used to always want to win. Later I found out, no one gives out prizes for winning.” She changed her phone wallpaper to a pothos. Two pothos died. She bought a third. She said, “If it dies, it dies. Buy another.” She used to lie awake. Now she turns off the light at 10:30. A cookbook by the bed. Two pages and she’s sleepy.

She told me, “What others think of me, I used to care. Later I found out, others are busy too. No time to look at me.” She was wiping the table while she said this. The rag was wrung very dry. There was a water mark on the table. She wiped back and forth three times.

An older sister, from a well-off family. Doesn’t buy luxury goods. Someone asked her, “Why don’t you buy them?” She said, “Buying makes me happy at the time. Afterward, I feel empty.” She spends money on chairs. An ergonomic chair. Sit all afternoon, back doesn’t hurt. A set of pots, nothing sticks. A plane ticket, go wherever she wants.

She sent me a photo. Kitchen. Soup simmering on the stove. The lid is translucent. You can see radish. She said, “This pot saves gas.” I said, “Expensive, right?” She said, “Expensive. But I use it every day.” Her living room has no TV. One wall of books. She pulls one out. A flight ticket stub inside. She said, “Others can’t see it. I know.” She didn’t smile. She picked up a spoon, tasted the soup. Said, “Bland.” Went to get salt.

I’m 43. Last month’s salary arrived. Paid the mortgage, paid for the kid’s tutoring, bought medicine for my parents. Not much left in the account. I opened the banking app, looked, closed it. Turned the phone brightness all the way down. Plugged in the charger.

I sat in the chair. Made instant coffee. Ate two slices of toast. The phone lit up. Someone in the group posted a supermarket discount link. I opened it, saved it. Tomorrow at eight, produce section. I set an alarm. Alarm name: Buy groceries.

I turned off the phone. Went to wash dishes. The water was cold. Rinsed off the dish soap. Bowls upside down on the rack. Mopped the floor. Packed the kid’s backpack. Sharpened two pencils. I sat down. Didn’t scroll Moments. A car passed outside. The light swept across. I stood up. Went to sleep.

See you tomorrow.