Sometimes I tell my husband I need to run an errand, but that’s not true.
I keep my poison in the back of my Jeep: a children’s tote bag disguises my coupon binder. I sit in the driveway and page through couponing apps, linking deals and mapping out my first hit. I breathe in and out, in and out. Driving, I think about what’s on sale and how I can combine coupons or stack deals and submit for Ibotta credits. I can feel control warming my veins. Shampoo for $.49? Band-aids for a quarter? If I can get diapers for under $2 a bag, I can find some wiggle room to go out for lunch one day by myself.
I leave the store with $60 worth of stuff for under $10. I feel better. I’m so good at it, I started teaching women at a local homeless shelter about how to save money. Controlling your purse is empowering.
Today, I realized why I do this: I’m falling apart. And I don’t think anyone notices.
I slept three hours last night and forgot to put on deodorant. I’ve worn the same pants two days in a row. I didn’t say anything today when I sat in front of a boss – after covering for her and another colleague for the last week – and she told me I need to do more.
“You should be writing more press releases.” “You need to turn these around quicker.” “You need to focus on YOUR OWN JOB.” “You need to… you need to … you should be …” I stopped listening.
Clip, clip, clip.
In that moment, I realized she is full of it.
I work late, I hug my children every day, and I am a perfectionist. But I am f’ing tired.
My husband has sleep apnea, so I’m always listening to make sure he’s breathing. The baby doesn’t sleep longer than 2.5 hours at a time. I stayed up late last night to wash the dishes and my oldest son’s karate uniform. I set the Crock-Pot this morning with something no one but the dogs will eat. I completed a comprehensive report at work that is really f’ing comprehensive. No responses.
I don’t think anyone’s noticed that my roots are 4 inches long. My shoes have holes in the bottom. My veneer is cracked on my front tooth. I’ve forgotten how to take care of myself. Me, the door mat. Me, the victim. Me, the person who used to speak up. Me, the person who would never put up with this nonsense.
They laugh at my couponing stories, especially the guys who are entertained by my cute, momish frugality but not really seeing just how messed up it is. I’ve become obsessed with it, because it’s the only thing I can control.
Anyone out there?
On my way home from work today, I’ll use a freebie coupon for a junior Frosty at Wendy’s. I’ll sit in my driveway, close my eyes and meditate while I bite into each scoop and try not to check my work email.