Yesterday, I spent $27 on a bottle of shampoo.
Before you accuse me of skipping out on my Recession Sensitivity classes, let me stress that it was a super-sized bottle which will probably last me a full year. But on the other hand, it is a fancy/goody brand made with tea tree oil, it has a wonderfully camphoraceous scent, and features a hi-tech hand pump that releases the precise amount needed for routine cleansing rituals. I started buying it more than ten years ago because my girl at Supercuts uses it, and I got hooked on the warm and tingly feeling that would resonate on my scalp for hours after every visit. I could buy something much cheaper at the local dollar parlor, but... I don't. And in an age when I've made financial cutbacks in every area of my life, I can't deny the need to qualify the few remaining indulgences I enjoy on a regular basis. Perhaps more boldly, I've elevated a few of those indulgences to necessity status, if only to dilute my fear that we're all headed for life in a communal mudpit anyway.
So let's talk about indulgences and necessities by first reviewing some of the cutbacks. At the grocery store, my wife and I now purchase the store brand plastic wrap (even though it's maddeningly uncooperative in comparison to the name brand), whole chickens instead of pre-cut chicken parts, and corporate milk instead of the organic brand we used to pay almost twice as much for. Additionally, I've become a fiend about crunching numbers and multiplying unit prices while roaming the aisles of the Stop n' Save. I have an array of price-plus cards tumbling out of my wallet, we grow all our own tomatoes and herbs in the backyard, and I'm totally willing to hold up a checkout line if my five cent discount for using canvas bags isn't honored. But in spite of the proactive rationale and general belt-tightening with regards to exotic household goods, there are some things that I am completely unwilling to give up—sacrifices that don't even earn a fleeting consideration on the profit and loss report that lives inside my head. To wit, here are a couple of the necessities.
Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, which we continue to drop upwards of twelve bucks a slab for at least twice a month. Fresh shavings of it served on an arugula salad with lemon juice and olive oil equals one of the most magnificent yet simple meals I have ever plated. More importantly, I've tasted that pre-shredded parmesan "cheese" that comes in the crude, shake-n-bake canister, and the idea of scattering that salty sawdust onto any meal summons an immediate and crippling depression.
Suffice to say, greeting the apparent endtimes by re-evaluating everything on the grocery list has produced some positive fallout. We eat more healthily now than we ever did back when there was money for things like vacations or dining out or going to bars. 
Crazy as it may sound, I'm thankful that in spite of modern history's plentiful gloom, recent years have taught me a smarter and more economical way of life. For anyone who rode the crest of 90s prosperity into the full stride of their adulthood, it's a pretty critical lesson to have learned, especially since so many of my peers have lost houses or their entire life's savings. I never would have imagined that simple thriftiness would help me dodge a bullet as big as the early 21st century.
Looking beyond the kitchen, shoes are another recent purchase that caused me to suffer the mental gymnastics of price point consideration. My adolescence and early adulthood were spent wearing archless Converse All Stars, hipster-doofus John Fluevogs, $5 flip flops, and clumsily unlaced work boots, sometimes all in the same day. When not traumatizing my lower extremities as such, I also frequently drove my car while barefoot, and sometimes walked around un-pastoral environments like Brooklyn and New Brunswick with no shoes at all. As a result of this foolishness, my feet are now what an experienced podiatrist might call "fucked", and I pay handsomely for it every time I need new shoes. Annoyed with the self-negligence that caused these problems, a recent shoe-shopping mission (which I had hoped to fulfill at the always-empty DSW in lower Manhattan) turned into a multi-borough search for black Doc Martens. I hadn't purchased a pair of Docs in more than 15 years, but my disdain for Skechers and other such craptastic footwear finally pushed me into that zone where paying a higher price for a more durable product becomes a no-brainer. As such, my quest for non-steel toed Docs eventually set me back a hundred bucks, but I'm pretty confident it was worth it. Properly cared for (read as: "not worn to Cro-Mags reunion concert"), Docs can last a good five years and offer unparalleled comfort, even for someone with feet as ravaged as mine. They are expensive, but they're also highly versatile, as well as being a long-term investment in basic health and necessity. Interestingly, the only shoes aside from Doc Martens that I find comfortable are skateboard-issue Vans, which makes me worry that in spite of my sartorial prowess, I will always look like an 18 year old punk rock enthusiast from the ankle down. Though that might be an asset in the event that my interest in the Cro-Mags re-emerges, part of me just wishes the Italian leather industry would collapse so I could scoop up a pair of Forzieri wingtips on the cheap.
Next time: "Apparently Netflix isn't interested in my idea for a three disc PER YEAR plan", or "I got thrown out of Bed, Bath, and Beyond for questioning the patriotism of anyone who charges that much for a shower curtain."
