Help me, I’m poor

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Every three months or so (usually coincided with when I finally muster the courage to look at my bank account), it becomes painstakingly clear that I’m not rich, and the likelihood of me becoming rich any time soon is slim to none.

I knew when I decided to be a teacher that I wouldn’t be able to maintain a lifestyle where I spend my days brunching with socialites and shopping at the expensive end of the Galleria. But a little voice inside my head would ever so often whisper, “marry a rich dude” and so there was always a fleck of hope.

All hope was crushed when I fell for, married, and procreated with a car salesman.
Dammit.
At least the brunch menu at Jack in the Box is delicious…

I admit I am in a constant state of denial about my lack of financial fortitude. I have bouts of shopping binges that ruin any hopes of me ever having a substantial savings account. Stores like Lululemon should never be a place I frequent. What business does a teacher – who also has a child –  have buying  a $120 pair of leggings? But I can’t help my self. Have you seen my ass in those leggings? It’s fantastic.

I can’t wait for this future conversation to go down:

Jackson: Mommy, can I have some money for college?

Me: Sweetie, mommy blew your entire college fund on luxury athletic apparel and mimosas.

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A semester’s worth of college tuition in the form of spandex

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