I suppose there are a few benefits of being a poor student again. The first is a renewed appreciation of what it was like not to be a poor student. When Nora and I reflect on the past or future I'll often say "when I was rich," or "if I'm ever rich again." Admittedly, one's sense of wealth is often relative and largely psychological. Even when I was making many times what I do now, I was in a job that was valued for attributes other than the salary. My first boss at MIT told me MIT paid so little relative to the market because then they knew you were committed and really wanted to work there. Of course, this was during the Internet bubble, perhaps I was a poor negotiator, or having been a graduate student there too, that odd MIT centric logic made sense.
The second benefit might not be a benefit at all, though it is certainly sympathetic to my natural frugal (cheap?) disposition. Even when I was a newly working professional it took some time to shed the "poor student" mentality. However, a friend and roommate helped me overcome that with respect to food at least. Previously I had done most of my shopping in a store that accepted food stamps and sold liquor. But with time I came to appreciate non-white bread items. (Nora -- and Michael Pollan -- have also influenced me here, eschewing anything that has more than a few recognizable ingredients.)
So, while I'm still now liberal on grocery shopping -- though if I am ever "rich again" I will eat out more -- my second stint as a graduate student has led me to clearly articulate two rules with respect to possessions:
These are a reflection that possessions often stress me out -- one of the many reasons I now forgo Christmas. That is not to say I have achieved a perfect freedom from material craving. If I do want something, I want it to be a quality item of value: I will waste a lot of time researching the best product and price. For instance, I marveled at Van Dessel for years before I finally bought one, at half-price on Craigslist. Same with my computer, a scratch and dent item from Dell refurbished. A colleague once asked me to recommend a digital camera which he then promptly bought. I was disconcerted that he didn't read any reviews or check prices for himself, he responded that's why he asked me, I had already done the work for him. I realized then that he was a wiser, or it least less obsessive, man.
Even so, stuff often does seem like a shackle. The big widescreen TV I bought myself as a "not a poor student anymore" gift in the mid-90s is a pain to move and probably kept me bound to an apartment longer than I would've stayed otherwise. I don't want to move it again and expect to sell it on Craigslist this winter and replace it with a smaller TV -- not hard actually, now that LCD TVs are so common.
But back to my rules, both of which I exercised this past week. The last few times I went on a long hike I wore sandals and suffered for it. Finding a pair of good quality inexpensive vegan hiking boots is very difficult. Fortunately, a friend gave me his old hiking boots -- evidently your feet can continue to grow. So, abiding by rule one, this weekend I waded into the mess at the bottom of the closet threw away a few pairs of shoes that could be shoe-gooed no more, and sent off an old pair of jungle boots, from my industrial days years past, to the Goodwill. (As a sandals in the winter guy now, I can't believe I ever wore black combat boots in the summer.)
For the past year I have also been looking at digital cameras. Since I bought my last one, I can now get a camera with twice the resolution, twice the light sensitivity, half the volume, for half the price -- this factor of 8 improvement exceeds my rule for upgrading a gadget. But, I am not in a position to be buying things just for the heck of it. So, I considered rule two. I sold Tyger, a 1970s muscle bike I had lovingly built up with ape hanger bars and white-wall tires. I rode it a lot in Cambridge, but not since moving to New York. It had begin to collect cobwebs on its 144 spoke wheels, but is now happily on the road again with someone else. I can use the money towards a camera when the price is right.
I'd like to think all of this means I'm less concerned with material things. And while it's true I am not concerned with accumulating things -- I expect I'll have fewer books, gadgets, bikes, and clothes than I moved here with -- my maxims and bargain shopping are really just a different type of attachment. Obviously, I still spend too much time worrying about possessions. An appealing rule is a monastic one: two robes and an alms bowl! I expect that's where the real freedom is.
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