Confessions Of A Reckless Spender

by Zara Barrie

I was born with an unquenchable THIRST for all things GLAM and FAB. I came out of the womb crying tears of expensive champagne and clutching a pink, quilted Chanel purse.

I just love, love, LOVE the deLUXE life. (Disclaimer: I'm wearing faux fur here. Just 'cause I'm bougie doesn't mean I'm cruel.)

Jessica Ariel Wendroff

And truth be told, I come from a long line of incredibly expensive ladies. My mother is forever adorned in high-end couture. Her walk-in closet is a place where designer dreams come true. She reeks of designer perfume. Her hair is expensive. Her lashes are expensive. Her lifestyle is expensive. And together we're just an expensive AF duo:

Some of my earliest memories are of waltzing around Bloomingdale's with my mother. Most children hate department stores, but to me Bloomingdale's was a glittering, gorgeous, luxurious heaven.

My young eyes drank in the stunning sights of fabulous women from all over the world, their massive Gucci totes hanging from their perfectly exfoliated shoulders, their polished fingers strumming exquisite garments expertly displayed across the beautifully lit store.

Department stores were my safe place. They still are. It's like the great Andy Warhol once said: "I never think that people die. They just go to department stores."

I don't want to go to heaven; I want to go to Saks Fifth Avenue.

My magnetic draw toward expensive things has only escalated with age. I always choose the market-priced item on the menu. I swear it's not intentional. It's just that I always crave the f*cking shellfish, and the f*cking shellfish is always market-priced.

I can never find anything I like on the sale rack, despite my great efforts. I can't help that I just love the buttery texture of a real designer bag. Drugstore mascara makes my sensitive eyes water. I get panic attacks on the subway, so I have to take taxis.

Some things just can't be helped. Some of us were born bougie bitches.

Jessica Ariel Wendroff

Now, I probably sound like an awful brat with a bottomless trust fund. You're probably picturing a girl with perfectly blow-dried hair who lives in a shiny building with a white-gloved doorman. Well yes, I'm an awful brat who likes her blow-outs, but I don't have a trust fund nor a doorman (one day).

I'm just a measly little writer who lives in a six-story walk-up, is barely scraping by in New York City and is cursed with incessant "delusions of grandeur." I'm just a mascara lesbian who lives well beyond her means. I'm just a 29-year-old who fears reality and has zero savings. I'm a mess who lives paycheck to paycheck.

Don't all line up to date me at once now, you hear?

Am I saying this is A GOOD THING and that YOU SHOULD JOIN ME ON THIS DESTRUCTIVE RIDE TO BANKRUPTCY? Hell to the no. I'm a terrible, reckless f*ckup, and please don't follow my lead when it comes to anything, especially money.

Am I proud of all this? No, I'm actually red-faced and embarrassed. I even hate myself a little. I'm deeply ashamed by my out-of-control, impulsive spending habits. Ugh, I'm stewing in a proverbial pool of SHAME while writing this. This was supposed to be a fun article, and now I just feel like sh*t.

I go to great lengths to hide my reckless spending, even from close friends. Do you know how many times I've asked the Uber driver to drop me off several blocks away from work so that my co-workers don't see me getting out of a chauffeured car? It feels similar to when my parents used to drop me off on a date in the junior high. Only I'm not fourteen, and I'm paying these f*cking bills.

So why can't I get a handle on my money? What the hell is wrong with ME? Oh, kittens, I really don't know. I think maybe I just don't like reality and would rather live in a sparkly fantasy. I mean, I can hardly bring myself to check my bank account. I shudder with fear every time I hand my card over to the cashier.

Please don't decline, please don't decline, please don't decline, I silently will the universe. And when my card isn't declined, a great wave of achievement washes over me. Yeah, girl, you got this.

After going to the store, I'll grab a bottle of wine on the way home to celebrate the fact that my card didn't decline, and then I'll stop at Sephora. Because you know, I really need a new mascara. And then when I'm at Sephora, I'll see that fragrance that I NEED because it's sexy, and I'm really trying to impress this girl. Oh, and makeup wipes. I always need makeup wipes. Another $150 down the drain.

Do you know that I got denied for a credit card from my own bank? Like, come on -- my 22-year-old co-workers have credit cards and I'm raring toward 30 with nothing but cold CASH and a student debit card.

Am I freaked out about a broke future? The sad truth is, well, no. I mean, of course I'm freaked out about certain things -- war, destruction, the zombie apocalypse, manic depression and failed relationships -- but money just isn't one of them. Money doesn't even feel real to me. It feel likes one life-size game of monopoly. It's never mattered to me.

If I were obsessed with money, I would have gone into a more financially stable career, right? But I always chose my passion over my bank account. I've always had tiny paychecks, but I've still chosen to pay for strangers' drinks.

Maybe when I start breeding, I'll be overcome with financial responsibility and will be a new woman. I mean, there is hope. There has to be hope.

But right now, I just don't give a f*ck. I wish I gave a f*ck. I wish I had self-control. At 29, I've given up almost all of my vices: recreational drugs, Ambien, pretty blue pills, cigarettes, black-out drinking, toxic romance, the works! This is my last vice. And I'm clutching on to it for dear life.

So why did I write this little rant outing myself as a total financial f*ck up? Because I'm sick of reading sh*t I can't relate to about money. I'm weary of women writing epic long essays about how they used to be reckless and now they're reformed! I mean, good for them, that's awesome,  but why can't we talk about the things we're still struggling with? Why are we allowed to write about our issues only once we've resolved them?

I know it makes me feel better to just read about other people who are f*cking up, too. It makes me feel less alone. And isn't that the whole point of the Internet? To create honest little communities that makes us feel less alone in this cruel, cold world? I'd like to think so.

Anyway babes, I have to go because I just ordered an Uber black car (WHAT? I like big cars) from the Upper East Side of Manhattan to Brooklyn. Girl needs to get her hair done.

And remember this: If you're feeling guilty about your finances, just remember NO ONE is more reckless than little ol' me. I exist to make you feel better about your life, darling.