Sometimes a cup of coffee is just a cup of coffee. But when ordering it requires using words like "double tall" and paying more than $4, a cup of coffee can become a point of marital inflection.
Last week, we went to Los Angeles to visit my sister and her family. I flew in with our two little kids on Thursday, and my husband met us there a few days later. When he climbed into our rental car, Joe gave me a quick kiss and began surveying the mess (amazing what two kids can do to a backseat of a car in a mere 36 hours): "I see evidence of four cappuccinos, totaling probably $20," he said.
A few out-of-budget small purchases aren't going to break us. And they might actually benefit us.
When we first met, I thought it was cute how he could tally up the cost of things so quickly. That was a long time ago.
* * *
I love cappuccino. I particularly like Starbucks cappuccino, but I'm happy with any overpriced coffee shop that sells a little frothy decadence in a sturdy paper cup.
The problem, though, is that cappuccino is not a line item in our family budget. We don't make room for such things when deciding how to spread our dollars. Last year, Joe asked me if I wanted to add it, cautioning me that I'd need to cut out another cost.
"If you worked 50 weeks a year," he explained, "and got a $4 coffee every workday, you'd need to subtract at least $1,000 from other discretionary spending on things like exercise or manicures."
So I cut out the cappuccinos. For a couple of months, anyway. And then I began to indulge again.
The truth is: When it comes to small indulgences -- fancy espresso drinks, tubes of drugstore lipstick -- I see the budget as an aspiration. Like a diet, it's something to respect and work toward. When we first met, Joe thought my flighty, creative, nonlinear approach to finances was cute. That was a long time ago.
I am not a big shopper. I don't splurge on clothes or unnecessary frivolities. I am crafty and resourceful. When my nightstands started showing their age, I ripped pages out of an old atlas and refaced the drawers with maps. I frame the covers of my kids' favorite books and hang them on their bedroom walls.
When I see a vintage vase I covet or consider signing the kids up for a music class, I first check with my husband. I understand that a dollar can't be spent twice, and also that I am part of a team that functions best when its members make decisions together. But because I adhere to the major constraints imposed by our family budget, I suppose I feel I should be rewarded with small splurges made without discussion.
I also rationalize my indulgence when I consider my daily commute to and from work. After a mad dash to get the kids off to school and myself out the door, I cram myself onto overcrowded modes of public transport and pass through what generously can be described as a very unpleasant bus terminal. Somehow, a daily $4 beverage helps wash away all that grit and incivility.
Last year for Hanukah, Joe bought me a fancy coffee maker. It was, perhaps, the most practical, thoughtful gift I've ever received. I use it all weekend. And I love that when we have friends over for dinner, I can offer them an after-dessert espresso.
Yet, I don't want to make myself a cappuccino at home in the morning, pour it into a thermos and drink it cold and frothless when I arrive at my office some two hours later. A thought-through cappuccino is no fun! I like the spontaneity of a stop at Starbucks. Its impracticality is its value. Its decadence is its appeal.
This is what I explained to Joe after he had looked through credit-card statements. (A future column: I hate having a joint account.) He wasn't buying it. "First of all, it's not spontaneous if you do it every day," he said. "Second, even if I were a billionaire, I would consider it criminal to spend four bucks on branded coffee and milk. It's profligate."
Of course, I know he makes sense. But by definition, an indulgence is supposed to be nonsensical. I don't ask Joe questions when he lights a cigar as we sit on our porch on a summer night (though I do tell him to get the disgusting smoke out of my face). Joe works very hard, and if he wants a cigar, he should have a cigar.
To my mind, a few out-of-budget small purchases aren't going to break us. And they might actually benefit us, giving that little lift that can come from a quiet moment of self-appreciation. That's when a cup of coffee is so much more than a cup of coffee.
* * *
On a street near my sister's house in California, Joe and I strolled one sunny afternoon with the kids in tow. We ambled into an old-fashioned millinery store with hats that come in actual hatboxes: fedoras, Havanas and bowlers. For fun, I tried on a cloche with black wool sides that dip low in a style reminiscent of the 1920s. As I looked in the mirror, Joe came up behind me and said, simply, "You have to have it."
The hat cost $100, a sum equal to more than 20 cafe-bought cappuccinos. It will keep me feeling warm and looking stylish as I wait for the bus each morning next winter en route to work. Nothing beats being splurged upon by your guy because he sees you in a hat and thinks you look swell.
As for the coffee, well, Joe has offered a compromise: He's going to create budget space for me to get a cappuccino two or three times a week. We'll see if budget-sanctioned indulgences taste as sweet.
