Broke in the Big City

As a 7th-grade Catholic schoolgirl growing up in a house in Magnolia where "hate" is a bad word and Scrabble is the game of choice, downtown Seattle was the final frontier of shopping, and its sirens trumpeted. A quest to the heart of the city required great planning and diplomacy.

Besides the questions of what to wear and when to depart, we had to tap the phone tree of moms for rides to and from the city, and the biggest challenge, hit up the parental units for cash. In those days I usually went to my dad for this, which puzzles me because my mom has the looser pockets, no question.

Twinkling lights, magical storefront displays, and lots of stuff to buy -- we had reached the Elysian shopping fields. The destination was never a disappointment, the trip never anticlimactic. Oh, contraire. For me, the doors of Nordstrom were like a portal back into the womb for an infant who has just been jerked out unwillingly into the cold, bright, hostile world.

Now, older, wiser and broke, downtown is, well, still twinkling, but in a look-what-you-can't-have sort of way. Downtown is a tease.

It's kind of like my wallet. From the outside, it looks like any other money-holding device. But when I open it up, instead of a bunch of dead green presidents, all I get is a voice taunting me. "Want some money?" it asks. "Get a job!"

When I reply, "I have a job; I work for The Daily," it always shoots back, "No. A real one." Now that I think about it, the voice sounds kind of like my Dad. Hmm.

Ever since my wallet started talking, I've been rethinking what is important to me during the holiday season. Does money make or break my Christmas?

No. It's safe to say that money, or more specifically a lack thereof, occupies my thoughts in a year-round sort of way, and Christmas, if anything, is a good distraction.

So in the spirit of poverty-stricken, disgruntled college kids everywhere, I can't help but analyze our priorities as reflected in this glorious money-guzzling metropolis of ours. When I go downtown these days, I feel like I'm caught in the crossfire of consumerism. People selling, people buying. A whirlwind created by people that suffocate their wallets with cash, people that aren't haunted by fatherly advice coming from purse or pocket.

On Thanksgiving weekend, I drove by Abercrombie and Fitch on 4th Avenue and caught a conspicuous glimpse of bare skin through the window. When I looked again, I saw that, yes, there was a shirtless guy standing between the display tables. Hmm. I looked outside, and sure enough, it was still winter. Hmm.

The clothing-impaired guys (yes, plural) were sales employees and models, and were participating in an interesting marketing scheme. Now, while I rarely object to half-naked men prancing about, and I must say the eye candy was sweet, I felt a little wave of weirdness. If it were summer, I'd probably set up camp in the store. But this time of year it seems a little forced. I mean, I want a tan as badly as the next girl, but it was 40 degrees outside. They're not kidding anyone.

Perhaps the most festive event that Abercrombie has endorsed this Christmas season was its version of taking pictures with Santa. For a fundraiser, male models, shirtless of course, posed for a buck a picture. Although that doesn't sound like a bad way to spend an afternoon, I've got other plans, ones that don't involve an overdrawn bank account.

I'm going to sit back and get a kick out of the desperate scramblings of retailers, and try to stay clear of the fumes of money. I'm just too scared to open my wallet. I never know what that voice will say next.