How I learned to stop worrying and love the recession

Personally, I'm happier when my options are limited. I like knowing that I can't afford to move and I can't afford to quit my job and I can't afford to think about the boundless possibilities that the universe has to offer, I can only afford to clean my own stupid house and eat leftovers and lose weight so the shitty clothes I already have don't look even worse on me than they would otherwise. Under the duress of an economic meltdown, I have to learn to bake bread and grow tomatoes and hit up my friends for hand-me-downs for my kids.

I say bring it on! As long as people aren't nattering on about cosmetic surgery or their stupid kitchen remodels anymore, as long as the skyrocketing costs of food and gas will make us stop for two seconds to consider how impossible it is to feed a family these days on our laughable minimum wage, I'm on board. We may cheer when it looks like the economy is firing on all cylinders, and there's certainly suffering and unemployment in store when it's not, but the fact is that ballooning housing prices have made the American dream an impossibility for most Americans. And those who dared to dream, charging the good life on their credit cards and taking on enormous loans that were considered absolutely normal not so long ago, are painted as fools by the same scribes who breathlessly gushed over plasma TVs and department store couture and whatever else the pushers of high capitalism were peddling during the golden age.

But was it really so easy to be happy when the world was our stupid oyster? That relentless quest for perfection only makes me distracted and neurotic. I don't want to look around my house and think, "I really need to reorganize my closets and reduce clutter. Is it time for another trip to the Container Store?" or "Wouldn't walnut plank floors look better in here?" or "Maybe the cleaning lady should come twice a week instead" or "If we have another kid, we're going to need to add on a second story." I want to look around and, recognizing that I don't have the money to change a single thing or hire anyone to do anything, say to myself, "How lucky am I, to live in such a cozy little house, with two nice dogs (shedding on the couch) and a sweet little baby (scribbling in red crayon all over her white crib) and some lovely smells (55-cent pinto beans) wafting in from the kitchen?"

Because who knows how long these bad times (which we may eventually come to see as good times) will last? I can only assume that if America's downward slide continues, people like me who have no discernible marketable skills, who are paid to sit on our asses and type for a living, will eventually be forced to get real jobs, digging holes or tarring rooftops or picking apples or the like. My father was a professor of economics, so I know exactly how the demand for opinionated blowhards like myself dries up, replaced by a demand for janitorial staff and house painters. When I read about credit default swaps and a stumbling Dow, I don't sweat over my 401K. I wonder how I'll adjust to a life of mopping floors eight hours a day.

Will that be the end of the world? Probably not. But I'd better start saving regardless, and so should you. America's not on top anymore, because we've been exporting nothing but lukewarm fajita platters and spray-tanned celebrity jackasses for decades now. The days of closet-reorganizing professionals and Botox parties and hiring a personal trainer for your nanny's personal chef are over ... and thank God for that.

See you in the bean aisle!