My new pair of kicks has nothing on my imaginary emergency fund
Pondering life's true essence
Last week, my flight to London was among the roughly 1,400 global air journeys which were grounded by the CrowdStrike mishap. Predictably, the many lone hours I subsequently spent at Zurich and Dublin airport were great fodder for some existential ruminations. Somewhere between contemplating a move back to London and obsessing over my terrible track record in answering my friends’ WhatsApp messages and when they might finally stop forgiving me, I landed on something more suited to the present circumstances: ‘unexpected expenses’, and the immense privilege of not being fazed by them. But let me go back a few ticks.
The moment the red lettering appeared below my connection on the scoreboard, aggressively spelling out the dreaded ‘CANCELLED’ and advising passengers to make their way to the transfer desk, I did as I was told - only to be met with a queue the size of what you’d expect to see outside an Hermès store if they handed out free Birkins. Feeling my cortisol level spike, I called my boyfriend for advice to vent. He sweetly encouraged me to join the much shorter business / first class queue and suggested I ask for an upgrade in the process, thereby increasing my chances of snagging a coveted seat. With my credit card in its maxed-out, brat summer state and several more hours left until my salary would refill my depleted account, however, I would have to rely on my partner’s undying generosity for this one.
I should have guessed CrowdStrike’s epic mess hadn’t been cleared up yet when I couldn’t see a single airport employee manning a PC. Instead, a few stressed-out, helpless-looking staff members stood in front of the queues, taking questions. Keeping them company were a couple of armed policemen who had seemingly been called in case of anyone losing one too many marbles (which I honestly wouldn’t blame anyone too much for (unless they turned violent, of course)!? Having your precious free time (it was a Friday, after all) uprooted by a software update gone awry just isn’t any fun).
It still being relatively early by this point, I was, alas, turned away none the wiser - but, it must be said, slightly relieved at not having to shell out god knows how much for a business class upgrade. With all the happy anticipation for this trip now wholly transformed into sheer desperation, I finally resorted to rummaging through Swoodoo for an alternative. As sketchy as the site and its prices may seem (or is this just me?), it does often deliver: I found one of the last remaining seats on an easyJet flight set to leave in the evening. Obviously, I frantically pressed ‘book’ - with my boyfriend’s credit card.
A mere 20 minutes later, just as I was paying for a bread roll with the cash I had borrowed from that same boy two days earlier, I got a text from the airline of my original flight: I’d been rebooked to a flight via Dublin. On the one hand, this was of course great news - it didn’t at all seem sure whether any flights were still taking off that day - but on the other, I had just spent an exorbitant 360 bucks in complete vain. In a surprising twist, it turns out easyJet let you cancel your booking for a CHF 50 fee, which is definitely better than over seven times that.
Looking cool vs. being free
Anyway. If you’ve made it this far, thank you <3. I’ll cut to the chase now. Throughout this unfortunate waste of a summer Friday, I was repeatedly confronted with my rampant overspending of the past three or so years since working full-time. And I suddenly had this thought: yeah it’s cool I’m wearing a pair of Mother jeans and have a Rimowa suitcase, but you know what would’ve been really cool? Being able to pay for this day myself. Having a savings cushion plush enough to stop me from breaking out in a sweat at the rising cost of this little adventure. Not bleeding myself financially dry at least a week before the month is over, time and time again. I could go on.
What brought this home so starkly is that I work in finance, in Switzerland, and therefore have a fairly hefty sum transferred into my account every month. My parents repeatedly gifting me sizeable amounts over the years makes this even more absurd. And I frankly feel deeply embarrassed by it.
The ludicrous and upsetting thing is though, I’ve experienced these should-be epiphany moments before, and nothing about my behaviour changed for long. And there it was again: as I looked down at my feet I felt a tinge of ‘cringe’ about wearing the same standard Adidas Sambas every girl on Instagram and Rishi Sunak wears, and immediately got the urge to hunt down a less ubiquitous pair. Checking my folly, I managed to refrain then, but I’m ashamed to admit that I did end up caving a few days later.
When I did eventually reach London that Friday night, only *12* hours later than planned, I felt so much elation and relief that the money for this nice hotel room and trip hadn’t gone to yet another pair of sunnies or shoes. Because ultimately, as the below note by Tom Ford so poignantly expresses, those material things are not at all what one remembers when reflecting on one’s life, are they.
I’m hoping that by documenting all this here, I’ll be less inclined to repress this truism when I am next feeling spendy. It’s worth a shot.
Thank you so much for reading.
Love, Alessia xx