I shift uncomfortably in my seat as a pair of female passengers approach the bus driver. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but after some negotiating the driver buzzes open the door and the two women exit and scurry along the pavement, soon out of sight.
I’ve been on the bus for two hours, stuck in gridlocked traffic. My thighs are cramped as I try my best not to slide off the downward-sloping wooden seat. My armpits are sweaty from the heat and humidity. My lungs are struggling to extract oxygen from the generous amounts of exhaust fumes I’ve been inhaling through the open window.
The podcast I’m listening to finishes and I put on a new one. To think, less than three hours ago I was enjoying a film in luxury, $100 for a flat bed all to myself, complete with mini fridge offering complimentary beers and sodas. Then I had to decide to take the bus home instead of the train—no change, less walking, a pleasant 1.5-hour ride, I’ll be home in no time.
Two hours later, I’m not even halfway. I silently curse myself.
I look up at the sound of the bus doors opening. The same two women get on and appear to be thanking the driver. They must have gone to find a bathroom. Then I realised, dismayed, we haven’t moved since they left.
Damn you, Val, and your romanticism.
It would take me 3.5 hours to get home that day. I haven’t taken the same bus since.
The lives I lead
I sometimes feel like I’m living three lives. There’s my normal, upper-middle income life which I’m in 85% of the time. Then there’s 10% living the extravagant “I’ll pay $100 to sit in a nice seat for two hours” life. And 5% getting butt cramps on 3.5-hour bus journeys home.
I move easily between my three lives. I’m comfortable in my normal routines. I don’t feel out of place lounging on the $100 flat bed. Sweaty bus rides are nothing new. I dine as happily in a fancy restaurant as at a street food shack—the food tastes just as good, and I’m aware it’d be foolish to expect anything resembling service when paying $2 for my meal.
Used to them I may be, but afternoons of juxtaposed luxury and discomfort, like the one depicted above, still put me in a pensive mood. How lucky am I to get to move between these different lives. Unlike most, if not all, of my bus companions, I can travel in comfort by train or taxi if I feel so inclined. At the end of a long work day, I can unwind with an ice-cold Belgian draft at an upmarket brewery. I can do a five-star hotel staycation should I wish to pamper myself on a special occasion. I can even hop over to my beloved Seoul for a two-week workcation, stay in a nice AirBnB, eat out every meal without having to save up for the trip.
Many years ago, when I was living in Thailand, I visited a state psychiatric hospital every six months to get my bipolar medication. Arrive before sunrise to take a number. Wait for a couple of hours for the weighing and blood pressure stations to start operating, then go line up to get my measurements. Wait for my number to be called, see a nurse who cursorily asks how I’m doing today. Then get another number and go wait in front of my doctor’s room. By now it’s 8am. My doctor shows up some time after 10am, then they start calling numbers. If I’m lucky, I get to see my doctor before noon. Once I’ve received my prescription, which is always the same, I go wait for my medication, which is another hour. By now, the sun is high in the sky and I’m starving.
This was my six-monthly routine. But if I moved back to Thailand now, I’d get my medication from a private hospital where I can make an appointment, wait in comfort on plush seats in air-conditioned rooms, be in and out in a couple of hours as opposed to going hungry for half a day.
I can afford not to go to the state hospital for free or vastly-subsidised medication. I have the money to live the more luxurious life.
What money buys
My different lives are what money buys for me. The ability to alternate between the worlds of the rich, the middle class, and the poor. To forever swear off interminable bus rides and overlong hospital visits.
But this ability isn’t the only thing I buy with my money, nor the most important.
First and foremost, I buy freedom. Specifically, the freedom to use my time any way I wish. Money buys me the freedom to only take one subtitling project a month, turn down problematic students, dedicate half of my work week to writing this free-to-read newsletter and my unsold memoir. Take away half my salary and I’d no longer have the time to pursue these passion projects—I’d instead be buried under a sky-high pile of freelance work so I can enjoy life’s luxuries I’ve become accustomed to, and still have a decent amount left to invest.1
They say money doesn’t buy happiness. But for me, this freedom it buys comes pretty close.
Money is not my main motivator in life—I’m driven by a desire to have an impact on the lives of others, a desire which I’m unbelievably fortunate to satisfy in spades through work. But ask me if I think money is important, and my answer will be a resounding yes.
Yes, money is incredibly important. And the people who insist otherwise are probably those blessed with so much of it they have trouble imagining what life with too little of it looks like, and how bleak that life can be.
Money may not buy happiness, but it buys a hell of a lot. Use it well and you may even end up happy.
What do you think?
Money, money, money… always sunny, in the rich man’s world.
What does money buy for you?
Does it buy freedom? Security? The house with the white picket fence? Several litters of puppies? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this with someone who uses their money well.
Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,
Val
Photo by Alexander Mils on Unsplash
I recently joined the ranks of the “VT and chill.” Holler if you’re one of us.
I took your writing generally when commuting to my work i can escape and also learn english so thanks for putting your thoughts on this type of paper🙂 a french reader who's happy to learn english this way.