The Martlet

I had never really thought about money before. At least not until last Christmas, when I received what I tacked up to be a second-rate gift from my parents. Unwrapping a thin, rectangular object that I was secretly hoping would turn into my own personal Cabana boy, I pulled out a book entitled “Making More Dough.”

Great. Thanks ‘rents. It’s not likely I would ever be raking in much cash at any rate with a Bachelors of Fine Arts, so what was there to increase?

Still, curiosity finally pushed me to crack the book and suddenly I was nose deep in a chapter explaining how to cut bank fees. And I was loving every word. Had I actually been spending at least three whole dollars every time I withdrew from a street corner ATM? Appalling. Could I really make $10 a month in interest on my savings account? Certainly.

Reveling in what was sure to be new-found affluence, I would walk into the mall, coffee shop, or the local grocery store with just that much more confidence. I would buy that half-price tomato sauce and be able to afford it, goddamn it.

Turns out my new book was just as satisfying as I had been dreaming. Hell, I was even feeling hotter at the bar. Money is sexy, after all.

I could keep myself well hydrated without having to rely on the guys that sidle my way and offer to buy me whatever I’m feeling any given night — not that this was generally an issue, considering how long I’ve been perfecting my approach to pre-drinking and normally had a bottle of wine safely emptied at home. Being able to strut around in thriftily acquired designer jeans, brand new heels and picking up not the $10, but the $16 wine left me feeling self-reliant, in control and with more assurance than is healthy for someone who already makes a career out of her confidence.

Nonetheless, when I accepted a tequila shot from a rather nondescript young man a few weeks into my new fiscal plan, I couldn’t help but wonder why there was something about his swank that had piqued my interest and had me suddenly giving him the once-over.

I remembered, though, an encounter I’d had with a guy who I’d chalked up as my type only to have him spend three quarters of our (very brief) chat drunkenly boasting about how he had barely been able to afford cover that night. It then came to me that it was these shows of financial security (or lack thereof) that had caught my attention.

Dad the ecologist would explain this away as my biological inclinations to find a well established man, but I’m sure it can be broken down to the simple fact that money is hot. If I feel like the meager dollar or two I’ll be putting into my savings makes me powerful enough to control my fiscal future, what kind of statement are the shots bought for me and my four girlfriends making?

After all, if he’s financially comfortable enough to drop some of his hard-earned cash on me, instincts tell me he’s in control and has it together (no matter how disastrous he might turn out to be), and that’s fucking sexy — despite my book’s enthralling money saving tips.