It is a recent weekday morning, and I am pulling on my running shoes. I study the engineered fabric next to my left toe and see a small but noticeable hole. On further inspection, I observe that I can almost slip my finger above the sole at the front of the shoe. My runners are disreputable; they are filthy from running through a wet winter and a muddy spring. Time to buy new running shoes! But I resist.
I am halting discretionary spending, and I am not sure why. The essentials of life – groceries, dog food, and cleaning supplies – are ordered and delivered regularly. Casual on-line shopping could be considered a legitimate form of self-care right now, and no one would criticize me for doing so. I feel fortunate that my income seems secure, so a modest shoe and clothing budget is not irresponsible.
But what is the point of buying anything right now? Do I need a cute new sweater for a ZOOM phone call with my kids? Are comfy sweatpants important for movie nights with my husband? Does the skeleton crew at my place of business even notice what I am wearing as I slip, almost surreptitiously, into my office and close the door?
Limiting volitional spending feels appropriate in this environment. My financial behaviors have changed, just as my eating habits have. I am psychologically squirreling away nuts for the winter; it feels right to economize in periods of uncertainty. I am limiting single-use plastics and religiously consuming food leftovers. I am considering sewing up holes in elbows of running shirts instead of tossing them out. Buying a latte at a drive through coffee shop is completely out of the question. I feel a perceived need for self-preservation, and austerity seems oddly linked to biological and emotional survival.
But it is more than frugality that drives me, and I am puzzled by that. I have a vague feeling that sacrifice benefits me, as though I am appeasing the viral gods. I am making a deal with a higher pandemic power: I will practice denial if you will loosen your grip and allow us to return to the lives we knew before you. I will live a simple life to atone for a wrongdoing that I did not commit. Living amidst an unfamiliar landscape promotes an elaborate form of delayed gratification. My mind is a quiet and attentive shelter right now, and it feels right to offer simplicity while I watch and wait.
In a future, unfettered juncture, I will roll out new running shoes and slip my grateful feet into them. Until then, I cajole my tootsies and remind them of their inherent strength and reliability regardless of what encloses them. I am remembering, too, that my spirit is innately resilient and resolute, notwithstanding what encompasses me.
I will outlast this season.