Stop Being Cheap

Generosity comes in all shapes and sizes (but none are found in the discount bin).

As someone in recovery, I can sniff out a fellow cheap person from a mile away. I get a shiver when I watch a stranger perform their best “purse dig looking for a credit card” at bill time. 

While I’ve learned to override being cheap, I still have my eye on the prize. A restaurant menu with a $2 cost-savings gap? I’ll find the combination. A utility turkey with a wing missing for Thanksgiving dinner? Who needs two? A discount bin at checkout filled with expired formula and stale nuts? Ima be sifting. 

Note: When Subway had $5 Assorted, Veggie or Ham Footlongs, I used to get the Assorted and pluck off all of the meat into a ziplock bag. Then, with a bonus baggie of bologna and hoof rounds, I’d make sad sandwiches at home for days to come. 

Among friends, I can admit that I am price-conscious. I have my finger on Joe Blow’s micro-economics pulse. For example, I know the going rate of cauliflower in Ontario, Quebec, or The Maritimes at any given time. 

Note: For anyone wondering, $2.99 is the best grocery store price of cauliflower in Ontario—and you can bet your ass this is in-season inside the cheapo chains that smell like mothballs. In the dead of winter, at a boutique grocer, that lacy piece of starch hits the double digits. And no, we’re not talking organic—we’re talking the one soaked in pesticides of the people.

With that said, being cheap is annoying. It’s inflammatory. It’s self-serving. 

If we trace the cheapness lineage, it’s often a byproduct of hard times. It’s also a trait passed on by generations (e.g. The Dutch).

However, for me—there’s no such excuse. I’ve never had to subside on Spam and I’m not a six-foot tall Dutch woman. I’ve never gone without. And hell, my Grandma has two bedrooms dedicated to just scarves and handkerchiefs.

So, I’m here to admit: I am first-generation cheap. 

That said, “cheap” is a catch-all term and not how I identify. My preferred nouns are: ‘resourceful’, ‘ hustler’, ‘Dollarami-mami’. 

Admittedly, these are all terms that a cheap person would use ^.

While I will squeal with glee at Happy Hour pricing and have never paid full price for a pair of jeans, I will never be someone who says “no” to fun because it costs money. I’ll also never be one of those “retire by 35 vloggers'' who make six figures but live in their unfinished basement to pay off their mortgage. I will also never—and I mean never—be someone who packs road trip sandwiches and apple sauce to save a coin. 

Everyone knows that travel calories do not count and this is something to be respected.

It must be noted that there are many flavours of cheap—some significantly worse than others.

Of the many flavours of ‘cheap’, the most offensive are: coupon clipping, showing up empty-handed, conning others into paying for you, the Meryl Streep purse dig, not sharing, giving IOUs as gifts, gasping at the price of things, and worst of all: asking people to pay you back (specifically, if you’re over 25, and the amount is under $25).

My flavour of cheap is remembering the 2012 price of a Merino wool quarter zip, scouring for the best deal, and then huffing and puffing that “things aren’t like they used to be”. While still deeply unattractive, I think we can all agree that getting a rash over inflation is better than bill-time diarrhea. 

Having an internal pricing catalogue means that when I see something below the benchmark, it’s hard to resist. The idea of not buying something just because it’s on sale when that could mean 95+% off goes against my hardwiring. But after 30+ years of being a peg-legged price scavenger, take it from me: the open-box karaoke machine that’s missing both mics is not worth it. 

Note: If you’ve already been Marie Kondo’ed, you can skip ahead. If you’re a minimalist whose life fits into a napsack, scroll on. If you own a label maker, can close your dresser without pant legs stuffing out, or put cereal into those plastic container thingies, you probably won’t need this either.

But if you’re like me and act like a gorilla pounding its chest whenever you see “50% off the lowest ticket price” (not that BOGO bullshit)—you need to hear this:

Don’t buy it just because it’s on sale.

A DVD set of Little People Big World, a blue MAC lipstick from the Aladdin collection, a wobbly side table from Ikea’s as-is section—don’t do it. That hot pink crushed velvet mechanic’s one-piece suit? You’ll never wear it. A rattan headboard for the spare room you don’t have? Save the energy. A clearance sale at ASOS but living in Canada? DHL’s fees will make Bell’s roaming charges circa 06’ feel cute. 

The odds of a win straight outta the discount bin are as likely as finding crotchless panties in our Granny’s drawer. With the sureness of a Palms casino slot machine, we will lose.

So, rather than hedging a bet against the house, and contributing to our friendly neighbourhood landfill with a “trashion” blouse or junky tchotchke, save the dough. 

For every bag of Dollar Store items we don’t buy, a duck gets its squawk. For each 90% off graphic tee snubbed, a butterfly dances. For every “meh” transaction that’s replaced with an ice cream, a dolphin lands a “Produnova”—the hardest triple vault a Ukrainian child gymnast can land.

Banking our buys for vetted, quality items is the power play. Buying quality, longer-lasting items is the smarter, understated European cool. Having less not only frees up physical clutter but clears our mental clutter as well.

Note: While we’re talking European built-to-last, it must be documented that I once worked with a German guy whose brother OWNED an electric toothbrush REPAIR shop. Not an electric toothbrush store, but a REPAIR shop—with an actual storefront. Germans aren’t just tossing their battery-dead dental combs into the dumpsters behind ‘das appartement’. They’re turning electric toothbrushes into goddamn heirlooms to be passed down and preserved for generations.

After all, when we’re scouring for deals, or nickel and diming ourselves and those around us, we’re less focused on what really matters. It’s a literal “cheap” distraction. Paying for longevity and what you truly want is the rewarding power play.

It should go without saying that monetary cheapness is only one factor. And “generous” and “cheap” are not on either end of the spectrum.

While spreading our coin is the measure of generosity we focus on most, it’s not the most important. Generosity means contributing our time, efforts, and talent. Being generous of spirit is its own currency (admittedly, this also sounds like something a cheap person would say). But rest assured, generosity of spirit is a widely accepted international currency. 

Being generous means sharing things that cannot be *easily* bought.

For example, offering to find better flights to the tech-impoverished, editing a friend’s thing, or making a dull party lively by busting out your wig collection.

We all have skills, access, or time that can benefit others. And our offering is different from other people’s. So, what may seem easy for us is another man’s all-consuming “don’t know where to start”. And visa versa.

If we think about the people who’ve filled us up most, it’s unlikely that money had much to do with it. However, their form of generosity did.

And so, our duty as adults is to aim for greater reciprocity. Being generous means sharing, being open, taking a load off, listening, and making meaningful contributions. To stop being cheap is to show others (in whatever way works for you) that you give a shit.

Your homework: give a little more than you’re comfortable with in your off-brand flav of cheap. Tight-lipped but have a vulnerable story that could help a friend in need? Spew it. Tight-timed but miss an out-of-owner? Call it. Tight-wadded but have a little extra to spare on someone in need? Spend it.

Let’s see what happens.