I Love My Fiance. I Love My Credit Cards.
By Allison Kaplan
I'm a shopper who needs justification as much as I need that pair of gray flannel flats.
I can buy those shoes, I tell myself, because I worked overtime one Tuesday three months ago. Or did I use that money for the Discover bill? No, no - bills get paid out of regular paychecks. Overtime money is like a reward I haven't budgeted, so it's good for presents. Presents for me.
This system has served me well. I pay bills on time. I save. I give to charity. And I enjoy those few moments of stress before frivolous purchases, because I always find a way to rationalize my spending.
Along comes Rustin, the mathematical fiance who likes to do complicated calculations in his head while I refer to my tip card. Rustin and I are chief financial operators of two very different systems, and I fear my fiance could prevail in this merger.
I like to watch my savings account grow with each deposit. Rustin screams, "Low interest! Get that cash into a mutual fund! Spread it out!"
Rustin pays bills the day they arrive. I wait until the last minute.
Rustin actually balances his checkbook every month. I pray.
Rustin thinks my frequent financial justifications are silly. I think his strictly fact-based money philosophy yanks the joy out of life in a free market society.
So the other day, Rustin accompanied me to the mall - first mistake - where I promptly fell in love with a reversible vest. Two for the price of one, already this is a "must have."
I don't need the vest. But I want the vest. A lot.
I conduct a brief mental review of assets...bingo! Birthday money from Grandma. I deposited her check in the bank just the other day. She told me to buy what I want, and this is what I want. So it's not even an unnecessary expense, it is a legitimate gift.
Not on Rustin's dime.
"Isn't this perfect?" I tell him. "I have just the right amount of gift money to buy the vest."
"But you already deposited that money in the bank," Rustin says.
"Yes, and now I can take it out to buy this vest."
"So really, you're going to dip into savings to make this purchase."
"There is money in savings specifically intended for this purchase."
Rustin tells me: "Money in savings doesn't get divided into little piles and earmarked for specific expenses." (That's actually pretty close to how I envision it, but I don't tell him this because now I'm angry.)
"I mean, if you want to imagine it that way I suppose you can," Rustin continues, "but you realize what you're really doing is taking money out of the bank."
We go over it eight more times. Then I buy the vest, and call Grandma to say thanks. She understands.
Along comes Rustin's birthday, and he receives a $50 Barnes & Noble gift certificate. At least with an actual certificate in hand, he won't try to tell me the money is not a gift.
Or so you'd think.
We go to the book store and Rustin, as usual, heads straight for the clearance shelves - where there are always 62 copies of an unauthorized biography of Princess Diana, next to a 1994 animal almanac, both selling for $3.99. Betwixt the two, Rustin zeros in on a $9.99 guide to Army survival.
I suggest the guide would be great to keep in his Buick - in case he accidentally veers into a jungle on his way to work.
Of course, if Rustin really wants the book, he should get it. That's what gift money is all about. But he only likes the book a little. It's the price he likes a lot.
What Rustin wants is an expensive dictionary of sociological terms. Buy it, I tell him! This is your big opportunity.
It's not on sale.
"You have a gift certificate," I remind him. "You don't have to settle for clearance."
"But think how many bargain books I can buy with the gift certificate," Rustin says.
"What good does it do if you don't really want the bargain books?"
"It's a bargain," my scavenging fiance declares. Lest you think this man is forever fiscally responsible, let me point out he recently went on a two-week Internet spending spree when he discovered that e-Bay auctions the Dungeons & Dragons guide books of his youth. (Insert "Geek" here.)
Rustin has not played D&D in years (thankfully), but at once, he needed a complete collection of those manuals. He didn't pay more than five or 10 bucks for each one, but it adds up - especially considering the unread books are already collecting dust on a shelf.
Suddenly my vest seems incredibly practical.
So we both have our shtick. When it all shakes out, I fear the board of directors, ultimately, will feel Rustin is better equipped to take over check balancing and bill paying.
Who wants that responsibility anyway?
My priority now is a generous compensation package.
Send comments to Allison at Singlstyle@aol.com
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