Nineteen

Dreamer of the Dreams

We met with a financial planner today. 

The simple fact that this was on my calendar was enough to send me into fits of grumpy pouting. “But I don’t waaaannnna go to the financial planner,” I imagined myself whining to my husband for several days once the meeting was set. “Finances? Ewww.” Instead of saying anything, though, I pretended to be a grown up about it. Yes, it’s good for us. Yes, we’re good about saving but really need to make a stronger plan to take care of our future. Yes, blah blah blabbity blah blah bluh.

Financial planning, the term itself, embodies all that just isn’t “my thing.” I want to save for the future, retire on time, be comfortable and not make my kids suffer in the future because we were dumbasses back in the day. But call it my probable (according to my therapist) ADD, or the fact that I’m an ENTP, or the fact that I’m an Aquarius on the Capricorn Cusp . . . whatever. The fact is, “financial planning” bores me. 

I worry about this. I don’t have a spending problem, or at least I don’t think I do. Mine are not outfits adorned with designer logos or gold thread; rather, they sport the Mossimo tag from the Bullseye Boutique (aka, Target) or the Gap signature “outlet” dots under the label. But homeslice does like to travel. And nothing strikes my fancy more than eating out with friends or, occasionally, my family. Budgeting is not my strong suit, but I’m not out of control. Money comes in. Some of it is spent, some of it is saved. That’s really about all I think about it.

And that’s why I worry. I’m an intelligent person, after all. I know what I should be doing to prepare for the future. But financial planning? So. Many. Numbers. Guilt builds as I realize I rely mostly on my husband to do both the budgeting and the worrying. I tell myself, it’s what he’s good at. It’s his job, like I cook and grocery shop and figure out the fastest shortcut behind Target to get to get the carpool to dance on time. I juggle our family’s social commitments and calendars and appointments like a BOSS. Packing lunches, writing emails to teachers, organizing rides to and fro . . .I’m on it. So is it a bad thing that I withdraw from something that is so mind-numbingly gross to me? Maybe not. So why can’t I let go of the guilt.

Thus the trip to see our new best friend, Financial Advisor Mark. I tell myself (and my husband) that I’m on board, I’m ready to manage a budget and keep receipts more organized than strewn in the bottom of one of seven purses I may be using at the time. Walking into the office, I pep talk myself through the parking lot. “You GOT this. Focus.” As I open the door, my husband, who is waiting there and not one for mushy or superfluous compliments, tells me, “You look like a movie star.” Random, but praise accepted. I feel good. I’m ready to focus, make some money for my family, prioritize, become so financially savvy that Trump will weep.

Within minutes, sitting across from Financial Advisor Mark, I’m bored to tears. Of course. Self doubt creeps in, as my mind wanders. What color is that on the wall? Who are all those kids in that beautiful black and white picture over there? My husband, however, is on his game, firing questions and responses with ease. He’s in his pleasure zone, so I force myself to focus. I nod, I truly listen, and I learn (even though it actually hurts my brain. I have to take three Advil when I get home).

Why are we here, Mark wants to know. Why now? “What are your financial goals?” he questions earnestly. Oooooh, fun! I think to myself. Make-believing, dreaming about the future, setting lofty plans? This I can do.

I think about his question and, while Mike speaks responsibly about providing for our family in the future and blah blah blabbity blah, I dream about what I’d like to say:

My financial goals? I’m glad you asked. More Disney World trips. Tickets to see each Tony Award nominee on Broadway, preferably every spring. My very own segue to ride around the neighborhood, mostly because it would be funny as shit. A red Toyota 4Runner that I will dub Big Red. My very own pair of Frye boots, just because they seem indulgent. A trip to Belgium and Amsterdam (and perhaps we can swing by Paris, a few towns in Germany, because I heard it’s so damn beautiful there, and Prague . . .  via a quick cruise of Alaska). A couple of writing workshops at the University of Iowa, which I dream of attending every year but it feels so far out of reach to do so. Box seats at every NFL stadium in the US, but just for one season because I need to be fiscally responsible. An apartment in San Francisco, my favorite city, for future visits. Annual and indefinite season passes to Austin City Limits music festival. And a family 1,000-pack of movie tickets. But those are just off the top of my head.

As I sit across the composite cherry L-shaped desk, looking back and forth between my husband and Mark, I suddenly realize that it’s my turn to speak, and I think better of being honest. At least for the time being. Instead, I said, "Um. College for our girls, hopefully two weddings, and retirement." It seems cruel to sum up our savings and planning and next 20 years so succinctly. But it must be done. I’m a mom above all, and the other stuff may work its way in there here and there in the coming years. I can make it happen. It’s my job to plan the fun, after all. To daydream some of the unrealities into our actualities.

For now, though, I better get to work on my book(s) ideas. That 4Runner isn’t going to drive itself off the lot.