In 2016 I made $75K/year and I felt fucking rich

The year is 2016. I am driving through my neighborhood in West LA to go pick up my friend Daisy, who is my neighbor and also my co-worker. We commute together to work most days, since we sell vintage engagement rings downtown near the diamond district and traffic’s a bitch. We are both 27 years old making roughly $75K/year and I feel fucking rich. We park underground at Pershing Square and hit the Starbucks on the corner on the way up to our building. I order a grande drip coffee and a plain croissant, which costs me $4.65.

At work, I check my bank account. My $1,440 rent check has just cleared for the month. I live in a 2 bed / 2 bath condo with a friend from college who waits tables at Soho House and recently had J.J. Abrams sit in her section. Obviously we both completely freaked out. Our rent went up 3% recently and we’re both mad about it, but I’m still thankful we have off-street parking and live in a relatively bougie neighborhood with rent control.

I look up from my desk around 2pm, suddenly ravenous. I decide to walk a few blocks to Tender Greens for my favorite fried chicken salad with tarragon dressing. It costs $11.50 and it is worth every penny. On my walk back to the office, I think about maybe going to grad school. I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, but I can’t decide between I/O psychology and an MBA. Both seem like they could be good options, but they’re obviously really fucking different. I’m so happy where I am in my career so far, even if I’ve landed more adjacent to the fashion industry than intended when I moved here five years ago, but I guess I want “more.” I just don’t know what that means yet. More money. More opportunity. More influence. Maybe.

I scroll Man Repeller on my desktop while I eat lunch. All the essays are free, and I am obsessed with everyone. Especially Leandra, Amelia, and Haley. A secret part of me wishes I had moved to New York. It would be such a fucking dream to work for a brand like MR. Daisy rolls her chair over to see what I’m reading. She’s always liked cupcakes and cashmere better, which I’m aware of, but don’t read.

On the way home, my gas light comes on, so I fill up my tank. It costs $30. I tell Daisy how excited I am to see our hairstylist, Mimi, tomorrow, and we blab on and on about what a magician she is. She cuts and colors my hair in one appointment for $275, including tip. It’s expensive, sure, but Mimi does blonde hair better than any other stylist we’ve ever tried.

Once I’m home, I start getting ready to go to dinner with some friends. We’re all currently single so we like to take each other on dates. I swipe on the matte pink lipstick I just bought online from a new beauty brand called Glossier. It was $18 and I think I’m in love. I spritz on two sprays of Flowerbomb before I head out the door, which cost me $115 two years ago and I’m starting to run low. It feels like it’s time to find a new scent, though. Something a little more sophisticated, a little less sweet.

I do one more look in the mirror before I leave. I laugh as I realize I’m dressed head-to-toe in Madewell, which comprises nearly 50% of my wardrobe. I’ll branch out at some point, I’m sure. I just bought a $98 sweatshirt from a new LA brand called Reformation I’ve been keeping an eye on. It says: I WENT TO MARS AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS STUPID SWEATSHIRT, hehe. Take my money.

At dinner, I decide on a truffle burger. It costs $13.50 and it’s fancy as fuck. Our total bill comes to roughly $80, so I pull out a crisp $100 bill from my wallet, slap it on the table, and pay for the entire meal. My boss gave me a blank envelope with $500 in it last week because he was so impressed that I got our brand featured in Glamour magazine. I am delighted by the looks on my friends’ faces when I offer to pay. I feel powerful and successful and generous.

I go to bed staring at the empty corner of my bedroom, deciding it’s finally time to buy the $700 leather chair from West Elm I’ve been obsessing over for months. It’s gorgeous and I deserve it. I work hard. I am very responsible with money. I am allowed to buy myself something nice. I am allowed to enjoy my success.

The year is 2026. I am very much not a morning person, despite my best efforts, but I am driving to my husband’s office in St. Paul at 8am to print off some marketing materials for his hella busy real estate business when my gas light goes on. I pull into my neighborhood gas station and keep my hand on the nozzle as it fills, stopping when the meter reads $40. I play a game with myself every time I fill up, trying to hit $40.00 exactly. The closest I’ve ever gotten is $39.99, but I know I’ll hit the jackpot someday.

Embarrassment sizzles in my chest for a microsecond as I yank open my damaged drivers side door that I never fixed after a self-inflicted accident two years ago, but then it’s gone. I settle back behind the wheel and confirm I’m at exactly 3/4 of a tank. Like always.

I am 37 years old and in my first semester of grad school. For the second time. Somehow I still can’t believe it’s been almost 8 years since I finished my first masters degree, and I still don’t know if it was a mistake. Probably.

Last year I made $60K from a combination of Substack, unemployment, and my job at cupcakes and cashmere before I lost it after 7 years, and I have invented little games like the one I play at the gas station to make myself feel better about throwing my first career in the garbage. I roll the windows down and turn “Persona” all the way up as I pull out of the station. I’m on track to make roughly $35K this year and have decided to drain my savings while I finish my second masters. Don’t fucking choke on your ego when you see me coming.

I decide to stop at Starbucks on my way to the office. From my phone, I order a grande decaf oat milk latte with 1 pump of vanilla syrup and a spinach, feta, and egg white wrap, which costs $11.54. I feel a sharp pang of guilt as I drive by Spyhouse—my local coffee shop with a portrait of Barack Obama on the wall—but I only get it on special occasions now. I don’t know how much saving $2 on a latte is actually doing for me but it feels like a lot.

When I get home, I quickly check my to-do list. My chest tightens as I look at the overdue task I’ve been ignoring for weeks: CALL THE MORTGAGE COMPANY. I got an email last month notifying me that the mortgage payment for our 3 bedroom house is going up to $4,400/month. If that’s true, it’s now $1,000/month more than when we bought our house four and a half years ago, which I didn’t think was even possible. Apparently our property taxes in St. Paul have gone up this much, but I guess I don’t buy it. I need to call and ask but I’m too stressed out to pick up the phone. Normally I am calm and optimistic and very collected but in this moment I feel like I am drowning.

I open the Substack app for a quick hit of dopamine. There’s a new essay from Leandra about fitness shorts, but after two pics I hit a paywall. I’ve been meaning to upgrade for several years now. I pull up my Notes feed instead, then scroll mindlessly for a free distraction. Nothing is catching my attention. It’s been a while since I read something that made me want to text every single one of my friends about it. What happened to all my favorite writers? Or is it me who is changing???

Now I’m stressed out, so I decide to stop at Sweetgreen on my way to class. My body has had enough cheap, shitty carbs the last few days and I refuse to eat an energy bar and call it lunch. I am officially too old to eat ramen every day like a fucking teenager. My salad costs $16.50 with a 5% tip; I grab a plastic fork and head to campus.

After class, I get ready to see Suki Waterhouse and decide to stick with something comfortable so my back doesn’t fucking hate me in the morning. I dig my white beat-up Vans out of the back of our closet. After a bit of back and forth, I pull on the blue floral Reformation top my sister bought me for my birthday, then the black Madewell jeans my mom gifted me last year for the holidays. I haven’t done any real shopping since I decided to go back to school, because good things are worth making sacrifices for. I feel a pang of gratitude that my family clearly understands the assignment. I may not work in the fashion industry anymore, but I am still the same 17 year old who will forever be obsessed with clothes.

I’m finishing my Carmindy five minute face when I notice I’m almost out of the lipstick I bought for my wedding. It’s still my favorite. I add it to my cart and almost tap “pay now” before my eyes catch on the price: $53. Didn’t this cost $45 three summers ago??? I throw my phone down and swipe on some Merit lipgloss instead. $53 for one lipstick is crazy. It occurs to me that Daisy works at Sephora HQ now and they do a friends and family thing every year, but I’m pretty sure they don’t carry Chanel.

I look in the mirror and realize how badly I need a haircut. And color, fuck. I grab my phone again and book an appointment with my stylist for a cut, but skip the color for now. A cut costs $144 with tip, but the color is murder. I can’t spend an extra $360 on something that feels so self indulgent. That’s roughly how much my textbooks cost each semester. I need books far more than I need to feel good about my appearance, and recession blonde is in right now. At least that’s what I keep telling myself, lol. Thank you to our lord and savior, Taylor Swift.

On my way out the door, I spritz on one spray of my signature scent—Santal 33, ovc, you can take the girl out of LA, etc. etc.—trying not to do the math in my head. If the bottle costs $230, how much does each individual spray cost? I can’t help myself, so I google it. 40 cents. I can’t decide if that makes me feel better or worse.

I meet two friends at The Loon before the concert. I decide on the burger, which is $20. Then I see a sandwich go by that looks delicious and is $4 cheaper, so I change my order. We eat and drink and obsess over my friend’s new engagement ring. My bill comes to $52 after tip; we all pay separately.

The concert is so fun, even for three shortish girls stuck standing behind a giant and a concrete pole. Edward Cullen’s fiancé is a fucking rockstar. I love her. Or maybe I wish I was her.

My husband picks me up outside The Palace at 9:35pm, and on the way home, I look up a few of my favorite songs and add them to a playlist before they leave my memory (“Dream Woman,” “OMG,” “To Love”). I fall asleep thinking about how we might need to sell our house.

In the morning, I wake up without an alarm at 7:15am, the bright summer sun shining in my face. I trace the lines on our wood ceiling, then my feet find the weathered floor. We take our dog outside and drink steaming coffees on the deck we built two years ago, sitting underneath our favorite tree.

I’m watching my husband walk back inside when I decide it’s time to redesign my resume.

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