Swift Falls the Hammer of Justice

About a week ago, a terrifying thing happened to me. I was laying on my couch, blissfully lost in an Xbox game, thinking about the Batmobile. My wife had been sitting at the computer, scribbling furiously in the check book, frowning and occasionally punching numbers in a calculator. I monitored this activity with my peripheral vision, emotions stuck squarely between “Uh oh, I hope she doesn’t notice blank” and “Thank God someone’s actually doing that, because I’m pretty sure it costs money to live in this apartment.”

After a few minutes, she walked over to me with something in her hands that I did not expect: a wad of bills. Not a very thick wad, mind you, but a wad nonetheless. She held them in front of my face, seemingly indicating that I was to possess them. I processed this scene for a long moment, the Ex Comm in my mind unable to reach a solid recommendation. Men are not very intelligent, but we have gradually absorbed the fact that we should be suspicious of a situation involving women or money that appears too good to be true.

My first instinct was that I was running some kind of errand, and that seizing said monies would bind me to the task. Were that the case, resistance would be pointless, because Corelyn’s repertoire of persuasive faces, both scary and adorable, is legend. So I haltingly grasped the bills, squinting suspiciously at my spouse. When she saw that I had pocketed them, she nodded slightly and marched away.

What?

Don’t get me wrong, Dear Reader, I’ve often felt that my husband-ing is on a level worthy of monetary reward. I offer an adorably scrappy appearance, compelling discourse on Batman, and…uh…well I seriously know a ton about Batman. The point is, I don’t think Corelyn giving me money on a regular basis out of sheer, undulating thankfulness is entirely uncalled for. Still, I found myself hesitant to accept that she had actually come around to this fact, as I’d proposed the idea in the past and been met with less than enthusiasm. So I was in a tough spot in negotiating my response. If this really was carte blanche, so be it, but clearly whatever was happening was meant to be automatically understood by me, and I couldn’t risk the spousal blowback caused by buying a lock of Christopher Nolan’s hair off of eBay with money I was supposed to use for groceries. Also, this was no pittance, Dear Reader. Would she really institute a payroll system with an average this high? I was holding in my hand a king’s ransom. I don’t want to say how much. Twenty six dollars.

I decided on a nice, casual “You’re welcome.” Just to see how it played.

Ahem.

“You’re welcome.”

She turned and frowned, “What?”

“Uh…you’re welcome?”

An uncomfortable silence, “Okay.”

Not quite the rapturous attitude I had assumed would be associated with this event. Although, in fairness to her, perhaps the act of paying me for my wonderfulness inspired a kind of humble repose. Maybe she was ruminating on ways in which she could increase her appreciation for–

“You know what that’s for, right?”

There is just so much that women expect you to already know, “Of course.”

“Really?”

Overdid it, act like it’s something you don’t want to do, “Yeah, yeah.”

“Okay. Well that’s it.”

That’s it? I’m supposed to be disappointed by this. But what kind of fool would be disappointed by twenty six unfettered dollars? Nothing left to do now but really put this thing in the field for study. I casually got up and found my keys, then started putting my socks on. One thing my wife has in common with the late Britt is a profound curiosity about where you’re going when you leave the house. Let’s just see what’s what here.

“Where are you going?” she inquired.

“Oh, to Amoeba [a local CD/DVD store].”

“Okay, I guess. Dinner’s in a few.”

Eh, I’m not sure she realizes I’m going to participate in some capitalism while I’m there, “Sure. I’m just gonna grab a few DVDs.”

She looked at me strangely. There was no immediate response, so the money wasn’t for groceries or something lame. But she also didn’t reply, so…somehow, this information is not what she was expecting. I decided one could only suss out the truth by continuing to stoke the fire, so I made my way towards the door.

“Uh, honey, I don’t think you should do that,” she said with a little difficulty.

“Why not?”

“I dunno, it’s only Tuesday.”

What in the hell is going on here? “So?”

“So what if you need something tomorrow?”

…Oh merciful Heavens. It clicked at that exact moment. I stared down at the money in my hand, the princely sum I had cradled like fabled treasure, and the thought rushed in before I even had time to process it: this is all the money I get for the entire week. This wasn’t a bonus, it was a per diem! This was it! I had to cling to this little wad of crumpled bills like a shipwrecked sailor to driftwood! It was a cruel reversal worthy of the Greek gods: I was free at last to spend my money however I liked, but every purchase would henceforth create a twisted Sophie’s choice between physical nourishment, bus fare, and video games—all of which are necessary for my very survival. It was like a “Twilight Zone” episode, the brass section blasting an ominous “dun dun DUUUUNNNN” while I screamed at the horror. And also it would probably be in black and white.

The worst part, of course, is that this is a justice I have deserved for some time. I am far from the worst money manager I know, but my stubborn refusal to adopt a concrete methodology has always kept me on a razor’s edge, living more hand in mouth than I really should. I cannot think of a single thing I regularly desire that costs over $50, but a) that’s still more money than I can spend and b) these little things have a way of adding up. I’ve always felt a sense of righteous indignation that it’s even necessary for me to curtail my habits. What am I, a drug addict? I have the most innocuous, harmless vices in the world. So I buy some CDs now and again! So I don’t plan every purchase I make! How is it that I keep winding up at the end of the month feeling like a strung out hobo begging for change?

But reality is reality, Dear Reader. I’ve gotten much better than I used to be, and even at my worst I would just overdraft now and then, but even a perfectly sensible budget doesn’t work if there’s no intention behind it. You can spend the exact same amount of money in a week, but if you didn’t plan on spending it, if you didn’t know how you were going to deal with it, there’s this weird cosmic inflation that adjusts in, and soon you’re broke. God has informed me of this on numerous occasions, and I have responded by plugging my ears and singing “Lalala,” so He decided to mobilize the Big Guns. As a side note, let’s not tell my wife that I’ve nicknamed her “Big Guns.” Keep that one on the low, Dear Reader.

Mind you, I had to get through all of this while standing before my wife’s steady, Eye of Mordor-like gaze. When I snapped to reality, I was frozen stiff in the kitchen, eyes as wide as dinner plates, staring off into space and rubbing my fingers together. I think I was mumbling the phrase “Catch 22″ over and over.

“Andrew?”

“Huh?”

“You didn’t know what that was for, did you?”