I attempted to avoid unnecessary expenses for an entire month. And by that, I mean: I hardly managed to reduce my non-essential spending over the course of 30 days.
To be clear, I made an effort. The task was straightforward: Purge all spending that wasn’t crucial for my family’s welfare, the settlement of ongoing bills, or the basic care of our pets. This meant no gourmet coffee. No new outfits. No alcoholic drinks. No films. Only the bare essentials required to navigate an increasingly tough America. At the end of this trial, I was supposed to share my brilliant insights regarding self-restraint, discipline, and minimalism.
Here’s what I discovered: Life can get hectic, and there are times you simply crave a taco.
This doesn’t imply that a spending break is a poor choice. British influencer Michelle McGagh chronicled a similar idea in her book The No Spend Year: How I Spent Less and Lived More, where she documented a year devoid of spending by her and her spouse. As a financial writer, McGagh’s challenge was better structured and implemented than mine. After covering bills, food, and toiletries, she mentions, “Everything else was off-limits. This resulted in no more rounds of drinks at the pub (tap water only from now on), no new attire, no gifts for my nephews, no coffee takeout, no dining out, and no vacations.” She cycled around, unearthed free entertainment, and allocated her savings primarily to additional mortgage payments.
While I may not have eliminated all my expenditures for a month, this endeavor gave me a clearer understanding of where my money was going and why. I also reminded myself that taking time to scrutinize your budget with a cold, detached focus is a valuable venture, provided it doesn’t happen so often that you forfeit enjoyment or social connections.
Examining everything under a microscope didn’t allow me to eradicate an entire vehicle’s worth of expenses, but it did compel me to rank them.
Honestly, I lacked both her determination and commitment to an anti-consumerist approach. My family has never really embraced extravagant spending, apart from travel and Bruce Springsteen concert tickets. Not to sound resentful, but McGagh had two major benefits over me: 1) She doesn’t have children; and 2) She resides in London, where some of the world’s most captivating experiences, like perusing a sarcophagus at the British Museum, are readily accessible for free. We have two kids and no ancient relics available in Indianapolis, which meant some unavoidable expenses.
However, to be honest, it was primarily my lack of willpower that led to my downfall. Committing to a month without milkshakes turned out to be a punishing challenge I wasn’t ready for. It’s one thing to be conscious of your expenditures; it’s an entirely different matter to stroll past La Chinita Poblana on Westfield Boulevard and refrain from popping in for a crispy shrimp taco merely because it’s 4 p.m.
Some might claim that my defeat signifies a collapse of resolve, an inability to last even 48 hours before crumbling into excuses and rationalizations. To that, I’d say: Yeah, I’m aware.
But there’s more to it. For starters, this experiment in strict frugality coincided with a particularly tumultuous period. February featured my son’s 13th birthday, the debut of The Lego Batman Movie, and the announcement of a summer concert featuring Def Leppard and Poison, performing together, ON THE SAME STAGE. I’m committed to my role as a writer, but I also have a weakness for unabashed, nostalgia-laden metal concerts available for just a $25 Groupon. Plus, as you might know, February hosts Valentine’s Day, which required a nicer gift for my wife than hair metal tickets.
More importantly, I quickly realized that a life devoid of occasional treats—even, particularly small ones—can become a monotonous, unexciting grind. I’m not implying that happiness is only found in extravagant yachts or cigars lit with rolled-up $100 bills. Some of my favorite individuals find joy in simplicity, and a multitude of my cherished experiences didn’t involve any financial outlay. McGagh mentions camping trips, homemade gifts, and gatherings with friends that don’t need to happen at bars.
Yet, what’s the benefit of a life without rewards, without a brief respite to consider, I’ll treat myself to that slice of key lime pie or I’ll save this for summer vacation? Isn’t that indulgent additional glass of wine one of the more enjoyable aspects of life?
***
At first, the concept of taking a spending break appealed to me greatly. My family, the Vrabels, has always been quite frugal, and by frugal, I mean that some of us grab strawberry and grape jelly packets from diners instead of investing in significant jars at the grocery store. My extended family’s garages are overflowing with around 900 buckets filled with waterlogged golf balls rescued from ponds and mini-golf courses. My cousin recently admitted that after almost 15 years of matrimony, it still irks him to see his wife use a single sheet of aluminum foil. “I lose a little piece of myself every time,” he texted, “and don’t get me started on the plastic bags.”
Initially, I viewed this as a beneficial and genetically rewarding reset, a chance to slam the brakes on the family budget. (The timing was fortunate, as it coincided with the arrival of Christmas credit card statements.)
Besides, I thought, How difficult could it be? I already had a house full of unfinished projects, unwatched series, and records left unspun. I reexamined old clothing. I rediscovered books I intended to revisit since college. (I seem to possess a few hoarding chromosomes.) However, one evening, when we decided to dive into the Stranger Things series, an unsettling thought suddenly appeared: Does Netflix count as necessary? Then, I scanned the rest of the house: Does anything in this space qualify as necessary? Can I survive on just dry bread and canned beans, using gasoline solely to travel to vital locations? Is karate truly essential? What about school? Honestly, it turned into an existential crisis I hadn’t anticipated. Clear rules were necessary. The guidelines became:
Inessential purchases encompassed:
- All clothing.
- Books.
- Ice cream from The Scoop downtown.
- Media, unless we could stream it via an existing subscription.
- Breakfasts and lunches out (excluding dinners, as our Tuesday routine is packed with after-school activities and a weekly Dad-and-boys pizza outing that I view as emotionally indispensable).
- Every single externally bought doughnut.
Essential expenses:
My foremost essential was the coffee shop. (Look, I work from home. If I remain in my house all day, I risk becoming a patch-bearded lunatic with 6-inch fingernails who roams the grocery store in a bathrobe. However, I limited myself to small black coffees, which is a rather feeble iteration of self-denial, but it’s a step nonetheless.) Next came a dental appointment. Furthermore, I must admit that I splurged on medication for pinkeye—the cost was $30, which seemed extravagant at the time, and I stood at the pharmacy counter contemplating: Is this a necessary expense? Can I endure this without treatment? Would it boost my immune system to let my body fight this off naturally? Eventually, I handed over $30 for the medicine because I was tired of being a crimson-faced demon with itchy eyes.
I quickly discovered that the distinction between necessary and unnecessary was hazy, constantly shifting according to my mood and caffeine cravings. I also noticed how swiftly I included items that were technically non-essential but felt important at the moment. Our Blue Apron subscription, which we use to help cut down on grocery costs and shopping time, remained intact. We cut cable years ago, but Netflix’s Octonauts and Dragons: Race to the Edge were deemed incredibly essential by the little ones in our household.
***
Why didn’t the thought of using the public library for work cross my mind? Well, it did, but I rejected that notion outright: I don’t frequent coffee shops for the expensive coffee. I do it for the social atmosphere; while libraries are incredibly valuable resources, they aren’t ideal for observing people.
These were the types of trivial justifications that led to my downfall. I convinced myself that buying concert tickets was acceptable since the event was scheduled for May; that I could indulge in this butter streusel coffee cake because I basically discovered it before my experiment started and, let’s be honest, it’s delicious. These small loopholes in the rulebook made future exceptions much simpler.
This, of course, illustrates the gradual, subtle process of justification that gets individuals in trouble: One jacket here, one pastry there, and before you know it, every little expense accumulates to credit card debt and shadowy figures that deplete your funds without you even realizing it.
Even though I didn’t accomplish McGagh’s severe form of cold turkey, I genuinely believe the experiment was beneficial, and here’s why: It demanded attention. It starkly identified expenses that could easily be cut, expenditures I had routinely approved even when they raised red flags in Mint, the budgeting application I use.
Like many people, I had a general idea of the amount spent on four movie tickets, a record here or there, a meal from Panera on the go. Yet that perception was more of a fuzzy concept easily pushed to the back of my mind. The gaps between those ruthless digits are where overspending takes root and thrives.
Examining everything more closely didn’t enable me to eliminate a new vehicle’s worth of expenses, but it did obligate me to arrange them by priority. Vacation savings, for instance, were the first item to remain. My wife and I agreed long ago that travel is a primary motivation for our work in the first place. If you’re not formulating goals, striving towards them, and then savoring the rewards upon realization, what’s the point?
Although I may not have completely exterminated my spending for a month, this exercise granted me—like McGagh—a clearer understanding of where my money is directed and the reasons behind it.
This reordering of priorities—while tedious and annoying—is the crucial element in saving my fiscal health. Extreme financial vigilance can make you less enjoyable at gatherings and a source of annoyance to your partner, but figuring out what is truly essential is worth a few frustrating hours.
Now I pause to consider before making purchases, an automatic self-check that hadn’t been present before. In just 30 days—less time than I would have imagined—I established a mental pause button, one that I continue to utilize. I would argue that even this beginner-level awareness can yield long-term benefits.
Consequently, I find myself more mindful post-experience, passing on another blue-plaid shirt and movie here and there to slowly accumulate funds for more meaningful goals like travel, family time, moments away from financial worries, and perhaps a few tickets to watch the Chicago Cubs, who hiked their ticket prices by 20 percent this year—rather indulgently.
