The Cheap End of the Ocean
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My mother is a very accomplished seamstress, among other remarkable talents. When I was a child, she showed me how to sew a few basic articles of clothing in the hopes that I would develop a passion for the activity that had brought her so much joy. Little did she know that sewing would soon come to power my fanatic hatred of shopping. I would examine every article of clothing I thought to buy, looking for shoddy workmanship, low-quality materials, anything to justify my claims that I could make it cheaper and better myself. Because, you see, I am a tightwad.
As a result of my excessive miserliness, I still have clothing given to me for Christmas in the late 1980s. I have been known to make my own blue jeans, proclaiming that store-bought brands are just too dear when it only takes $12 and 14 hours of work to achieve the same effect. I have clothes handed down to me by my mother than I am now warehousing for some speculative future daughter who will no doubt inherit my skin-flintiness. I spent years honing my shopping skills at thrift stores where I found I could even talk myself out of a 50 cent flannel shirt on the grounds that it was just too extravagant. I'm not afraid to admit that my mother buys a good portion of my clothes, not because she wants to spoil me, but because she fears someday I'll just give up and walk around naked. Because hey – it's cheaper.
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