Expiation
Maybe it's my age.
By a certain age, you become more sensitive to the world around you. You feel confused about the privileged life you lead. You feel guilty about the millions of others who stand on the same Earth but lead lives of terrible poverty, experience cataclysmic natural disasters or suffer from political or gender persecution. You wonder why we are not kinder to our fellow beings, the animals with whom we share the planet.
Or maybe it's because I did the 80s and don't want to do them again.
Young, with good jobs and smart friends, we lived as though we were entitled to the best of everything. On a whim, we drove across the U.S. border and hopped a commuter plane to New York for dinner and a night out. We took too many long lunches, bought too many shoes, hailed too many cabs because we couldn't be bothered to take the subway. "The working rich" as one critic called us. It was, simply, too much and, eventually, it wore very thin.
Whether it's age or memories, I am burdened with the dawning sense that here, in one of the most privileged cities in the world, we are once again knee deep in excess. And it's far too easy to wade farther into the pool.
It was a simple drink that started this unsettling train of thought. A rather lovely Rhubarb Daiquiri. With my friend, I set out for an after-work drink and snack before tackling errands. We settled on Hopgood's Foodliner, a very good neighbourhood restaurant. We each had one drink and we nibbled on a couple of slices of their signature molasses bread and butter. With a modest tip, the bill was $50. Fifty dollars. No more than five ounces of liquid between us, no more than a couple of slices of bread.
Though perfectly delicious, it ultimately made me feel like a dunce and a fool. Days later, I am still filled with what my friend Sarah Jane would call Catholic guilt. I am no longer a Catholic, but Sarah Jane believes I am still informed by the guilt which makes the wheels of that religion turn.
How many children would that $50 have fed? How many shelter animals would it rescue? How many girls would it help educate?
Yet, how do I balance these ideas and feelings with the truth of who I am? I am not a sackcloth-and-ashes sort of person. I do enjoy ... enjoyment. I do like the very good much more than the so-so.
How do I expiate the inclination to occasional excess?
One simple idea presents itself. Perhaps, when I'm about to treat myself to something special -- an unusually expensive meal or dress or holiday -- I can equally treat those who most need my help. Perhaps I can be as generous to the needy as I am to myself. It is a possibility -- perhaps one can enjoy the occasional indulgence and actually feel good about it.
By a certain age, you become more sensitive to the world around you. You feel confused about the privileged life you lead. You feel guilty about the millions of others who stand on the same Earth but lead lives of terrible poverty, experience cataclysmic natural disasters or suffer from political or gender persecution. You wonder why we are not kinder to our fellow beings, the animals with whom we share the planet.
Or maybe it's because I did the 80s and don't want to do them again.
Young, with good jobs and smart friends, we lived as though we were entitled to the best of everything. On a whim, we drove across the U.S. border and hopped a commuter plane to New York for dinner and a night out. We took too many long lunches, bought too many shoes, hailed too many cabs because we couldn't be bothered to take the subway. "The working rich" as one critic called us. It was, simply, too much and, eventually, it wore very thin.
Whether it's age or memories, I am burdened with the dawning sense that here, in one of the most privileged cities in the world, we are once again knee deep in excess. And it's far too easy to wade farther into the pool.
It was a simple drink that started this unsettling train of thought. A rather lovely Rhubarb Daiquiri. With my friend, I set out for an after-work drink and snack before tackling errands. We settled on Hopgood's Foodliner, a very good neighbourhood restaurant. We each had one drink and we nibbled on a couple of slices of their signature molasses bread and butter. With a modest tip, the bill was $50. Fifty dollars. No more than five ounces of liquid between us, no more than a couple of slices of bread.
Though perfectly delicious, it ultimately made me feel like a dunce and a fool. Days later, I am still filled with what my friend Sarah Jane would call Catholic guilt. I am no longer a Catholic, but Sarah Jane believes I am still informed by the guilt which makes the wheels of that religion turn.
How many children would that $50 have fed? How many shelter animals would it rescue? How many girls would it help educate?
Yet, how do I balance these ideas and feelings with the truth of who I am? I am not a sackcloth-and-ashes sort of person. I do enjoy ... enjoyment. I do like the very good much more than the so-so.
How do I expiate the inclination to occasional excess?
One simple idea presents itself. Perhaps, when I'm about to treat myself to something special -- an unusually expensive meal or dress or holiday -- I can equally treat those who most need my help. Perhaps I can be as generous to the needy as I am to myself. It is a possibility -- perhaps one can enjoy the occasional indulgence and actually feel good about it.
posted by Sharon Airhart at 8:36 pm
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