While Bunny and I were on the same page in most areas, money wasn't one of them. He'd grown up an only child of indulgent parents, and thought nothing of fearless spending. My parents weren't poor, but they weren't wealthy, either. We had the things we needed, but luxuries were few and far between. Plus, my depression-era grandparents (on my dad's side) instilled in us the idea that frugality was one of the best virtues one could have. That, and if you don't want to lose all your money when the bank fails, keep a healthy supply in the deep freezer. I ignored the second part--besides, I don't own a deep freezer. Shocking, I know! But the first--frugality--that stuck with me to this day. I can pinch a penny until Mr. Lincoln screams. It was a skill that came in especially handy during the lean times.
My maternal grandmother had been raised in a very wealthy family, but by the time she married, the money was all gone. Her family must not have had a deep freezer, either. However, while she lacked monetary wealth, she was an expert in manners, etiquette and social graces. We dreaded dinners at her house, because she constantly corrected us during the meals. One of us ate "like a truck driver." Another couldn't keep her elbows off the table. Nowadays, we're thankful for those lessons--no Pretty Woman fork moments--but they didn't seem worth the hassle at the time.
Aside from table manners, she coached us in every other area where she could see room for improvement. Our "simply awful" Cajun pronunciations were a frequent area for critiques. One weekend when she stayed with us while our mother was away, I asked if we could go to the THEE-ay-ter. If I'd whacked her with a hammer, I don't think I'd have gotten as pained a response. We were taught that polite conversation did not include religion, politics, or money. One certainly did not discuss how much one made or spent.
Bunny did not grow up with all the guidelines we did. I gave up trying to teach him table manners after the first year. The most I could get him to do was put his napkin in his lap. He would blurt out his salary, how much he paid for anything, his credit score--any financial information was fair game. I hold my financial information very close to the vest--it's probably one of the very few things I don't talk about. A few years ago, I interviewed for a job where the employer insisted that all potential hires fill out a credit-check authorization. I instinctively balked at this requirement, and told him if my credit-worthiness was good enough for the Florida Bar, it was good enough for anyone.
He couldn't convince me otherwise, and noted that of the three people who'd ever refused, all were women. I told him it was probably because women were more careful with their private information, and thanked him for his time. I did wonder why none of the men would have refused this invasion of privacy. I knew Bunny wouldn't have hesitated, so I asked him why it wouldn't have bothered him. To him, and probably to most men, the credit score was a mark of success--a bragging right. Kind of like other <ahem> measurements guys like to compare.
One of Bunny's hobbies was investing-stocks, mutual funds, etc., telling anyone who'd listen how much he'd made or lost along the way. He made enough money between investments and his various jobs that I wasn't able to curtail his spending. "It's only money!" he'd say. He never went without whatever he wanted, while I stuck to my save up/do without/plot and plan approach. One of the most spectacular clashes of our money philosophies came during our second trip to Vegas, where he liked to go for his birthday. We were both out of school, each earning a good living, and had booked a room at The Paris for a week. It was a big step up from the hotel where we'd first stayed (The Excalibur--avoid it if at all possible), and was more than I had, to that point, ever paid for a hotel room.
We checked in and went up to the room, swung open the door, and walked into a suite! I was astonished as he told me how he'd upgraded without my knowing it. My first thought was panic--how much would this cost? When he told me, I burst into tears. "It's only money!" he said for the millionth time. He got upset with me because I was ruining his birthday. Note--my birthday was exactly 10 days later, and it was a joint birthday trip. Anyway, I calmed down, enjoyed the suite, and didn't go hungry paying for it.
About a year ago, when it was no longer a question of if but when the cancer would do him in, I asked him if there was anything he wanted to do that he already hadn't. I knew there would come a point where he would no longer be able to travel, and wanted to make sure that he had no regrets about not having done something. His being diagnosed with cancer was finally the thing that convinced me that it was "only money." If he'd said he wanted to charter a rocket to the moon, I'd have agreed without hesitation. But It took him no time at all to answer: he'd done everything he'd wanted to do, and had everything he'd wanted to have.
So, oddly enough, his cancer brought about a change in my money philosophy. Now, if I really want something and I can afford it, I buy it. Most of the time.
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