Valerie Schultz: Credit cards are a hard habit to break
| Wednesday, Nov 04 2009 08:50 PM
Last Updated Wednesday, Nov 04 2009 08:57 PM
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"Temperature's rising / Fever is high
Can't see no future / Can't see no sky ..."
-- John Lennon, "Cold Turkey"
My husband and I have quit the credit card habit cold turkey. Two months ago, we cut up 15 different cards, all of which have balances that are now in the process of being paid off. It's going to take us five years. But we are now a cash-or-check-only family.
Sometimes I feel like I'm jonesing, like I need a fix. There's something I can't afford, and I want badly to charge it. Kicking the credit card habit is hard, man. It's as hard as quitting heroin ... OK, I'm no expert on heroin withdrawal, so I'll compare giving up my cards to an addiction I am familiar with: It's been a lot like quitting smoking.
When I first quit smoking, I felt like I'd lost my best friend. That elegant tube of tobacco gave me peace, gave me security, gave me gratification. I mourned its loss. Even though I knew in my head that smoking was deadly, in my heart I missed that lovely rush of nicotine. Now I feel lonely and naked without my credit cards. Each thin piece of embossed plastic gave me peace, gave me security, gave me gratification.
Having a credit card, or in my case, a bouquet of credit cards, to pull out of one's wallet in an emergency gives one a snug sense of well-being. As a parent, it is a comfort to know that whatever situation your kid might get into, you can probably charge them out of it. When the unexpected happens, a car emergency or a home maintenance crisis or a family funeral that requires an airline ticket, relief arrives in the form of a small plastic card. I knew that I could pay for anything life tossed at me. If I was short on cash -- and I was always short on cash -- I knew I could charge whatever we needed. The problem would be solved.
Except that emergencies became more and more frequent, and we charged things that weren't actually emergencies: vacations and prom dresses, theater tickets and nice dinners out. Frivolous things thoughtlessly went on plastic. Still, we had ridiculously high credit limits that we would surely never reach.
As long as we had available credit, which we had tons of, and as long as we made our payments on time, which we always did, we were on top of things. We were good at keeping our heads above water. We looked great on paper. Gradually, though, a larger percentage of income went to satisfying minimum payments, and so a larger share of our normal monthly living expenses was put on credit. We sometimes used cheaper credit to pay off more expensive credit. I know: craziness. We thought we had a handle on it.
Then came the credit crunch of 2009, and our cards' limits were abruptly lowered to their actual balances. At the same time, both of our paychecks shrank due to state furlough days. Less money came in. The same or more had to go out. And we had no more room on our plastic to smooth over the difference.
Now we give a sizable chunk of change every month to pay down our defunct cards, and for everything else, we live on cash. We have no safety net. It's unsettling. There is a certain purity in going to the grocery store with a small, finite amount of cash and buying only the bare necessities. But I sometimes feel wistful for the days when I bought whatever I thought might make my family happy. I am reminded of the commercial several years ago for the California lottery, wherein a guy who had just won millions is browsing the dairy aisle of the grocery store, and the hipster voiceover of epiphany says something like, "Wow ... like, I could totally afford all this cheese." When I am shopping now, I feel the opposite. I totally can't afford any cheese.
There are things I no longer do under the New Austerity. I no longer renew magazine subscriptions, rent movies, or send flowers. I no longer pay for a car wash or pick up a pizza, treat myself to Starbucks or drop clothes at the dry cleaner. I no longer participate in the school fundraisers of my co-workers' children, give money to charity, or buy Tupperware/Avon/Pampered Chef or any other products that support the friends who sell them. You'd think by now that the empty pockets of someone who used to be such a profligate spender would be noticeably affecting the local economy.
The withdrawal symptoms are easing, little by little. There are still tough moments as we battle our addiction one day at a time. For cheap therapy, we are blogging about our extreme budget, at thinnerwallet.wordpress.com. My husband named the blog for the condition of our wallets when we removed those thick stacks of cards. At first they seemed flaccid, anemic, no longer full of possibility. But the thinner wallets we both now carry signify positivity, a healthy financial decision, a moving forward. With time and self-discipline, we will grow older, wiser, and more solvent. In five years, we'll, like, totally be able to pay cash for all that cheese.
These are Valerie Schultz's opinions and not necessarily those of The Californian.
