IT finally dawned on me that I am an incredibly poor person.
Granted, I am not poor by standard norms in that I have a job and whatnot.
But this is almost more tragic because the realisation has finally hit that I will never be able to afford to live the life I have always desired, or indeed the life I have been pretending to afford thanks to my nifty use of the credit card.
Said credit card has now been maxed out and I am in a very unfortunate situation where I have no money. It’s very sad really.
Yes, yes, yes, shut up, I know: I have a job and thousands don’t, but this you must understand, I thought I was going to be a millionaire, or at least I thought I’d marry one. Hmmm, what was that?
Did someone mention women’s lib?
Yeah, whatever.
I now understand the above will never be my reality and so, last Saturday when I realised the credit card had been broken beyond all possible repair, and that I owed my landlord an unspeakable quantity of rent, and that I really needed a new pair of winter boots, I did something that I never thought I would do.
I did something which I, Mairead Wilmot, had never, ever done before. Please don’t underestimate how long I thought about what I am about to tell you, for it took a great deal of courage; it went against everything I stand for.
Yes, I … I … I’m just going to say it. I got an old pair of winter boots reheeled instead of buying a new pair.
Oh, it’s out; my dirty shameful secret is out. Please spare my dignity, don’t throw pennies at me in the street.
I tried to tell myself that this was recessionista chic, but to be honest it merely added to my woe because I wondered, if and when this recession is over, if my dire financial straits will be improved.
And tragically the fact that my friends are building houses, buying houses and getting married clearly means they and their finances have grown up, while I linger in a bizarre state of student like poverty despite being employed for many years.
I’m a failure; a failure, I tell you! A failure who can’t afford pretty boots. Oh, it is almost too much for me to bear. This is like a great Shakespearean tragedy, this is.
After I had entered the shoe repair shop and was told it would cost just €12 to have my old boots made as good as new, I did feel a certain sense of accomplishment.
I had a terrible urge to tearfully ask the man behind the counter if many employed girls in their mid to late twenties came in to get their boots reheeled or was I the only one. But I bit my tongue.
I then thought I should share my secret with someone, someone who would be supportive, someone who is legally obliged to be nice to me in times of distress. So I rang my mother.
I opted to put a positive spin on the turn of events so I called her and said: “Mother, I’ve just done something … you’ll be very, very proud of me, I’m sure.”
“What? I’m just in Zara getting presents for your brother who lives in New Zealand.”
“Oh for God’s sake, I know he lives in New Zealand, Mother. I’m trying to tell you something!”
“Oh, riiiiiiight. What is it?”
I took a deep breath and said: “Mother, Mother, I realised I can’t afford new boots so I went and got an old pair reheeled.”
There was silence at the other end of the phone. I thought she had cut me off as she is prone to doing roughly three times during every conversation … but no, she was still there because she said: “Oh … oh, you poor thing, you poor, poor thing.”
I should point out her repetition of the word ‘poor’ was meant sympathetically; she wasn’t hammering the point home, I presume.
Regardless, it was all too much for me, so I wailed: “I know, Mum, I’m poor, I’m really poor, sob, sob, sob. But you know, we all have to face realities and the reality is I can’t afford nice things, sob, sob, sob.”
“You’ll be fine, you’ll be fine,” she said, but I suspect she was thinking: “You should have tried to nab a rich husband, but, really, you’re more than likely past your sell-by date, Daughter”.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to get last year’s winter coat dry-cleaned, I’m sure it is in a perfectly useable (albeit completely out-of-fashion) state.