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I’d shop, if I didn’t have to spend money

I hate shopping.
I already need to take back that statement. I don’t hate shopping. I hate spending money.
I have always been tight-fisted. Whenever I really wanted something as a child, my mother would need only say, “You’ll have to use your own money.” That usually killed my desire to acquire whatever it was that caught my fancy.
While I enjoy browsing — I spend many morning checking out stuff I want online while I have my coffee — I rarely find anything on which I want to spend my money.
And it shows.
My sister once took a look around my house and asked if I had ever bought one new stick of furniture. I inherited my mother’s furniture, which includes a couch sagging from a broken slat, my dad’s recliner, which tends to lean to the left, an equally sagging bed in my guest room (which is probably why no one visits me), a desk donated by one of my church’s former pastors, a glider chair that I got used from an assisted living center, and a dresser that my dad refinished back in the 1960s, with an underwear drawer that only opens if I smack one side with a fist while yanking on the handle on the opposite side.
And then there’s my wardrobe.
I’ve promised myself that I will buy new clothes as soon as Ilose the 20 pounds I need to reach my “ideal” weight.
That means my current wardrobe is at least 10 years old, because that’s how long I’ve been on a diet.
I keep trying to put money away for new stuff, but something always comes up that drains my savings: my modem dies, my water softener starts shooting water all over the basement, my dog gets a stomach bacteria from eating something dead and requires a visit to the vet.
I’ve decided it’s time to pry open the purse strings and start spending a little on myself. I may have to pry the fingers of my right hand open with the fingers of my left hand, but I’ll get there.
If it doesn’t cost too much.