The Sherpa’s Second Serve: Learning life lessons slowly outside the protective bounds of affluence

Last week while shopping in Home Depot, I was awestruck by what seemed like miles and miles of appliances, tools and lumber. Never-ending shelves stacked to the heavens with piping, drill bits and paint supplies. And little helpless me, absolutely clueless as to what I could possibly do with any of it.

Growing up, I rarely had to fix anything. The simplest of tools perplex me to this day. ‘Lefty-loosie’ is supposedly a guideline that tells you which way to turn a screwdriver or wrench. But to me, it’s a frustrating brain-teaser that’s more abstract than the concept of infinity. How pathetic.

Hello. My name is Andy. And I was a rich, sheltered suburban kid.

I never had to change my car’s oil or rotate its tires. In fact, I’d never even pumped my own gas until I was 18. I never considered the cost of toilet paper. I never took a close look at my health insurance policy. Two mysterious people living in my house supplied me with clothing, filled my refrigerator, made sure I went to the dentist at least once a year and held my hand through four years of college. Life was easy back then.

Now at 27, I’m beginning to see the repercussions of those first 21 years of carefree existence. To live a relatively modest and responsible lifestyle takes far more brains, money and time than I’d ever imagined. And quite frankly, I am ill-prepared. You may be, too.

How many of us have any idea of how to shop for the best auto insurance? How many even know how to read our auto insurance policies? How many of us have a fire extinguisher? Functioning smoke detectors? Clean bathrooms? Any semblance of financial savings? Know how to vote? Are you registered? When’s the last time you changed that Brita filter?

There’s just so much stuff that accompanies independent living. Who knew that buying a stamp was such a hassle? They were always right there in my dad’s desk drawer. Now I actually have to leave my apartment when I need one. It’s only a five-minute walk, but for the recovering rich, sheltered suburban kid, the many errands like this are stressful, time-consuming challenges that we’ve taken for granted throughout most of our lives.

I entered college with virtually no real understanding of responsibility or independence, which made me an ideal candidate for a MasterCard. Creditors make a killing off college freshmen who are suddenly considered ‘adults’ even though most have never spent more than a week or two away from home. For 18 years children’s needs are met by their parents, and then one day those children are left at the student union building to receive their dorm key, ID, nose piercing and credit card application. Now they are adults.

The credit card starts as a last resort for emergency situations. In short time, it’s used for online transactions. And textbooks, gas money and groceries. Eventually, you’re standing in line at Campus Convenience with coffee and a pack of gum, realizing you have no cash. But that’s OK. Put it on the card and worry about it later.

I graduated in 1997, and I’m still paying off purchases I made while at Penn State. During a well-deserved lecture last summer, my mother astutely observed, ‘You’ve been on your own out of college for five years and what do you have to show for it? Thousands of dollars in credit card debt and a stack of Bob Dylan CDs!’

Of course, whose fault is that? Maybe I wouldn’t be so incompetent if she and my father hadn’t worked so tirelessly to make sure I had socks, a nice lawn, hot dinners and the proper immunization shots. My parents managed their money carefully. They saved and clipped coupons and they were careful not to spoil me. I wasn’t spoiled. But I was never hungry either. I always felt safe and secure. What horrible parenting.

Although I can’t legitimately blame mom and dad for my present state, experience tells me I should be able to blame someone. The rich sheltered suburban kid has never actually done anything wrong. My inability to gain even a minimal degree of measurable success in life could not possibly be a reflection upon me. Oprah said so.

We have all been raised to believe that we’re very special and unique individuals. No child is dumb, lazy, mean or spiteful. We’re all misunderstood or mishandled or victims of a learning disability or social illness for which we’re diagnosed and heavily medicated. So what’s my problem?

I think I’ll blame my high school’s curriculum, which I’ve never really understood. What exactly was it designed to prepare me for? Calculus? Physics? Biology? When will I ever apply any of that knowledge? It seems highly specialized and relevant to only a select group of students.

This is a radical thought, but I wouldn’t have minded some exposure to subjects that matter. How about a class on how the city government works or how to file your income taxes? Or a class that gives me some idea of what social security, Medicaid, Medicare and HMO’s do. Maybe some kind of remedial personal finance course could have readied me for life beyond the weekly allowance.

But high school and my youth are now in the distant past. And although I’ve shown nothing to this point, maybe by 30 I’ll be as wise and responsible as my parents were at 25. The learning curve is a little different for the recovering rich sheltered suburban kid. But acknowledging the problem is the first step toward any recovery. So with my Dylan CDs and my credit card debt, I’ll try to live better. One day at a time.