I WISH I HAD SAVED MY SIZZLER MONEY, BUT I AM, IN FACT, STUPID

21 Oct, 2024

🔈CLICK HERE TO LISTEN TO THIS BLOG IN AUDIO FORM🔈

Back in 2012, when I was a bright-eyed 17-year-old high school student, I made the brilliant decision to work at Sizzler (RIP, sweet cheesy toast heaven). And now, here I am at the ripe old age of 29, in the middle of a cost of living crisis, wondering why in the ever-loving hell I didn’t save any of that money. Spoiler alert: It’s because I am, in fact, a stupid fucking idiot.

If I can think back, I’m pretty sure I spent most of the money I earned on food, which is probably why I ballooned up like a human-sized meatball. Working at Sizzler with access to a free salad bar was not ideal for self-control. And by 'salad bar,' I mean the carb-fest I turned it into. I would show up to my shift an hour early, not because I was a hard worker, but to whip up my signature disaster of pasta Alfredo, potato skins, and bacon bits. Jesus fuck did that hit the spot. And don’t even get me started on the dessert bar, I practically rolled home with a cup of apple crumble every night. Now, let’s not get carried away, Sizzler wasn’t exactly showering me in riches. I wasn’t leaving every shift with gold coins spilling out of my pockets like some salad bar hooker. But still, where did it all go? I was living with my parents! No rent, no bills, no groceries! I had a clean slate, people.

And you know what’s really adding salt to this wound? I thought by now, I’d have married some nice fella, and we’d be buying a house together, enjoying our dual incomes. But here I am, single, cradling my snail-paced growing savings account like a baby, trying to scrape together a deposit all on my lonesome. I’m really trying to be empowered about the whole thing, like “Yeah girl! You don’t need no man! Get that one-bedroom palace all by yourself!” But honestly, it sucks. Big time.

Let’s be real. I’ll probably end up in a 1-2 bedroom apartment, at best. And it’s not just the cost of the place, it’s the furniture, the Wi-Fi, the “Oh no, I’m out of toilet paper, and I can’t blame a roommate” crisis. And don’t even get me started on the cost of living. I had to drop therapy because it wasn’t in my budget. Do you know how much I need therapy? The Sizzler money is haunting me like a bad ex. Imagine if I had saved it! My $60,000 deposit goal is now just a joke, knowing inflation will probably stretch that to $80,000 by the time I blink. Fuck my literal life dude.

Whenever I hear some 19-year-old whining about living at home with their parents, I’m like, "Shut up and SAVE your money!" I become this old, jealous hag, warning them like the ghost of poor financial decisions past. I wish I could go back, tell 2012 me to put that Sizzler paycheck into a high-interest account and eat my mum’s cooking instead of inhaling pasta Alfredo like a damn vacuum.

I’m all about being independent, hell, I love living out of home. But dear lord, is it expensive. And don’t even talk to me about renting. Real estate agents? Straight to hell. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. It’s a nightmare. I just want to paint a wall or hang a picture without the fear that my landlord will raise my rent for the crime of wanting to live like a normal human being. Is that so much to ask?

And here’s the kicker: I’m so chronically single that it hurts. I’ve been feeling it lately. Living with a disgustingly in love couple, seeing people holding hands on the street, and me, eating poffertjes alone at the West End markets while sobbing into my sugary delights because no one’s there to buy olive sourdough with me. I don’t care if you’ve been in a relationship for 10 years, please, for the love of all that is holy, do not tell me “It’ll happen when you least expect it.” What will happen is me jamming my foot so far up your ass, you’ll be expecting nothing but pain. I’m so sorry. (No I’m not.)

I thought I had it all figured out with my last boyfriend, two-time homeowner, lucky bastard. I thought we’d get married, and voilà, a house (or two). Not because I was gold-digging, but because, damn it, it was comforting to think I’d finally be combining my three worldly possessions (a sack of marbles, a nice pair of shoes, and my Kmart bed sheets) with his prime real estate. But no. He dumped me. Brutally. I recently saw him crossing the street, probably off to buy a $9 coffee or some equally pretentious shit, and I swear I was seeing red. I hope your life sucks, man.

So, yeah. Here I am, lamenting over all the Sizzler money I wasted, trying to scrape together a deposit and dreaming of the day I escape this tenant hell. Whether it’s with a husband or solo, one day I’ll own a place. And when I do, it’s going to be fucking grand.

Song recommendation of the week: ‘CIA’ by Radium Dolls

🎵CLICK HERE TO LISTEN TO MY SONG OF THE WEEK🎵

SUBSCRIBE TO MY BLOG