For many of us, the '90's were a growth period, characterized by change and development: sequentially more candles adorned each birthday cake, addition yielded to algebra, and ascending notches upon the doorframe surpassed the erstwhile ones below. Don't forget the increasing allowance, either. In a way, we resembled the nation around us, which was beginning to burgeon with the rapid advancement that would herald the technological age. We were brethren of the computer, the middle children between the mp3 and the tape deck, venturing into adolescence. Additionally, we were expensive. Having been raised during a time in which money had become more comfortable for most people, good thrift was hard to find, and both the American government and people might have been described as anything but frugal.
Currently, however, a rigid dichotomy exists between the spending tendencies of macro and microeconomics, in which the former is predominantly typified by its high expenditures and costly bailout price tags (can anyone say, "Stimulus package?"). Within the year, billions of dollars have been exhausted in order to rejuvenate the economy, and some of our nation's most thriving corporations, once vigorous, have now come to subsist off the government's Keynesian feeding tube. With factors such as GM's life support considered, the total will be quite a bill to foot. Meanwhile, the rest of us appear to feel differently. Those of us at the household level -- and more appropriately, at the college-student-budget level -- conversely listen to the mantra of "Spend, spend, spend," while clutching anorexic wallets and think, "No, no, no. Better be thrifty. Thrift is good, yeah."
Yet, why do the words "thrift" and "budget" seem to convey chagrin, or relinquishment? Thrift is good. Especially for Americans, whom other countries have long remonstrated for their global "waste" and "avarice," sparingness may be an advantageous adjustment and an opportunity to appreciate the less possessional aspects of life. It doesn't mean forsaking our economy by hunching over and receding into penny-pinching parsimony, but rather noting the ramifications of financial stress and abating our mindset of materialism. It means learning how to better discern between desire and necessity and enjoying when careful management allows us the occasional treat. Moreover, we can derive pleasure from each day without ever crossing into the realm of exorbitance. Some of the best things, after all, are simple things, and the less extravagant things can be the most valuable of all.
The savory juice of a watermelon slice, for instance, when it coolly contrasts the heat of a sweltering summer day, or the way the wind incessantly imbues the air with the smoke of a charcoal grill or bonfire. The company of true friends, or family, particularly when you need it most, or enjoying a delectable homemade meal in lieu of the usual at a local restaurant. Running a race, fallen leaves or fresh snow. Window shopping, hiking, watching a film. An open back road with the wheel in your hand and the wind in your hair. Finishing a damn good book. More or less gratis, such things not only augment our appreciation of life itself but also increase our enjoyment of the indulgences we do allow ourselves, much as one might savor an infrequent filet mignon as an aside from the habitual T-bone.
Perhaps the most significant part of maturation, however, both nationally and individually, is that one learns responsibility, strikes a balance, and -- to some extent -- wisens up. I hope that we, the progeny of America, can eventually find that equilibrium between tightfistedness and open-palm syndrome and better from it. As the future leaders of the country, it wouldn't hurt to try. Ultimately, should we succeed, our accomplishment would be the vertex of the doorframe, the heavy indentation head and shoulders above the rest.
Stéfan Orzech is a sophomore majoring in English and comparative literature and is The Daily Collegian's Thursday columnist. His email address is spo130@psu.edu.
