It’s tax time. (Oh, did I mention that one or a hundred times already? Sorry.) Anyway, the season has made me think of money, so here’s a money story from the distant past:
In my first job after university, at a local publishing house, I was making a whopping $23,000 a year. And I was doing okay. I shared a house with some roommates. I ate a lot of rice and vegetables. Maybe I wasn’t the best dressed girl but you know… most people working in the bowels of the publishing house weren’t, so it didn’t really matter.
Then I met Min, and he asked me out for dinner.
On the chosen night, I checked my wallet, saw that I had a $20 bill, and thus felt fully prepared.
We went for a drive, a walk along Robson Street, and then to a lovely restaurant tucked around the corner on a leafy street. All was perfect… except the menu. NOTHING cost less than $20.
Min ordered something large and meatish, and I ordered a spinach salad appetizer. Because that was the only thing on the menu that I could afford. After the server took our order, Min looked at me and said, “Do you actually like food? Because food is important to me, and I don’t think I could date someone who has issues with it.”
Seriously. He said that. He’s kinda direct that way.
And of course, I couldn’t admit that I only had $20 in my wallet, so I made up some story about a late lunch.
An hour or so later, he graciously paid the bill. Which meant I could have actually eaten a decent DINNER instead of pretending to be satisfied by my saucer of salad.
And that is why I’ve decided, this week, to stop reading to my children. We’re going to learn anatomy, algebra, and the periodic table at bedtime, instead.