Betty Would Like to Eat

Betty wanted to go out to dinner. This should not have required a financial analysis.

“Can we afford to go out tonight?” she asked.

Dudley looked up.

It was a perfectly reasonable question. They had asked each other versions of it for thirty years. Can we afford the new couch? Can we afford the trip? Do we really need the better grill? Why are paper towels eight dollars?

They had spent most of their adult lives paying attention to money. They compared prices, waited for sales and saved before they spent. They occasionally drove across town to save an amount of money that did not withstand scrutiny once gasoline was included.

That was how they got here.

But something about Betty’s question bothered Dudley.

“Of course we can.”

Betty looked at him. “Okay.”

She waited.

Dudley waited too.

“So?”

“So what?”

“Where do you want to go?”

Dudley blinked. “Oh.”

Betty smiled.

“What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere nice.”

“How nice?”

Betty stared at him.

“Restaurant nice.”

“No, I mean—”

“I know what you mean.”

Dudley stopped. He had been about to explain that not all unnecessary spending was equally unnecessary. Betty was already putting on her shoes.

“Do you want to know why we can afford it?”

“No.”

“I’ve got the numbers.”

“I know.”

“The spending is right where we expected. And the auto insurance already came out this month, so the total looks higher than normal, but that’s not really—”

“Dudley.”

“What?”

“I’m hungry.”

That should have concluded the financial portion of the conversation. For Betty, it did. For Dudley, not quite.

Her original question was still bothering him.

Can we afford to go out to dinner?

For decades, dinner had been paid for with money they had recently earned. Another paycheck was coming. Then another.

Now dinner came from the pile.

The pile was large and had been carefully assembled for exactly this purpose. Dudley nevertheless preferred that the pile remain a pile. Spending it seemed counterproductive.

This was a flaw in the plan. Not the financial plan. Dudley.

They got in the car. Betty suggested a restaurant they liked, and Dudley agreed without saying the word budget.

They drove for a few minutes.

Then Dudley said, “You know, we actually planned for this.”

Betty looked out the window.

“I had a feeling you might bring that up.”

“No, seriously. I don’t think I’ve explained it very well.”

“You have explained it.”

“I’ve explained the retirement plan.”

“Several times.”

“Right. But that’s different.”

Betty looked at him.

Dudley had her attention now. Probably not voluntarily, but he had it.

“We know what it costs to run our life,” he said. “Mortgage. Utilities. Insurance. Groceries. Healthcare. Cars. All the regular stuff.”

“Yep.”

“And then we put money in for things we actually like doing.”

“Like eating?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent planning.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Dudley continued.

“We didn’t build a retirement plan where the goal was to spend as little as possible. We built it around the life we said we wanted.”

Betty was quiet.

That sounded better out loud than Dudley had expected.

“We planned for dinners. Trips. Having people over. Projects around the house. Stuff with the kids. Things we want to do.”

“And flowers.”

“And flowers.”

Betty smiled. “Don’t forget the flowers.”

“I would never forget the flowers.”

Her expression suggested there was extensive historical evidence to the contrary.

“And if the markets have a terrible year,” Dudley said, “or something major changes, we can pull back on some of the optional stuff for a while.”

“Okay.”

“But we don’t have to make that decision every time we go out to dinner.”

Betty turned toward him.

“That’s what I was asking.”

Dudley paused. “What?”

“I wasn’t asking whether one dinner would bankrupt us.”

“Oh.”

“I know we have money.”

“Right.”

“I wanted to know if we’re okay spending it.”

Dudley drove another block.

That was a much better question, and he had spent months building an answer to it.

“Yes,” he said. “We are.”

Betty nodded.

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

“I did.”

“No. You started talking about auto insurance.”

“That was context.”

“That was auto insurance.”

The restaurant was busy, but they got a table. Betty ordered a cocktail, and Dudley ordered one too.

For thirty years, they had both possessed an involuntary ability to locate the price of an entrée before reading its description. Retirement had not cured this.

Betty looked down the menu.

“Ooh.”

“What?”

“The steak.”

Dudley looked at it and found the price almost immediately. Betty saw him find it. Neither of them said anything.

The steak was, objectively, expensive. Not mortgage-payment expensive. Not healthcare-premium expensive. Not Monte-Carlo-ruins-the-weekend expensive. Just more expensive than the chicken.

Dudley’s brain performed several calculations without authorization.

Betty smiled at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re waiting for me to say something.”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I was just wondering if the steak is inside the guardrails.”

Dudley laughed.

“Get the steak.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Should we call Borris?”

“Borris has a very liberal spending policy when someone else is paying.”

“Good point.”

They ordered.

Halfway through dinner, Doug called. Betty answered and listened for a moment.

“No, we’re out to dinner.”

Another pause.

“Yes. Your father is here.”

She looked at Dudley.

“He wants to know if retirement has driven you insane yet.”

“Tell him I’m doing very well.”

Betty relayed this, then laughed.

“He says that’s not what he asked.”

Dudley took a drink.

“Tell him his inheritance is being converted into steak.”

Betty told him.

“He says good.”

Dudley frowned. “That’s not the correct response.”

Betty handed him the phone.

Doug was laughing.

“You’re supposed to be concerned.”

“Dad, you worked for like thirty years.”

“So?”

“So eat the steak.”

Dudley looked across the table. Betty raised her glass.

“Your son appears to agree with me.”

“I’ve clearly failed to instill sufficient financial anxiety in him.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing.”

Dudley considered this.

“Let’s not get carried away.”

Their food came. Betty’s steak was excellent. Dudley had ordered something slightly less expensive and immediately regretted it.

Betty gave him a bite.

“This is really good.”

“I know.”

“You chose wisely.”

“I usually do.”

Dudley decided not to investigate that claim.

They talked about Doug and Barb, then Ray and Bonnie. They talked about a place Betty wanted to visit and whether they should have some friends over the following weekend.

None of it involved withdrawal rates.

The bill eventually came. Dudley looked at it, added the tip, and did something that still felt strangely difficult.

He paid it.

No recalculation of the retirement plan. No Lunch Money in the parking lot. No wondering what the same amount invested at seven percent would become by age eighty-five.

Just dinner.

When they got home, Borris was waiting near his bowl. Jingo appeared behind Betty approximately four seconds after she walked through the door.

“See?” Betty said. “Borris would also like to eat.”

Borris looked at Dudley.

“You have food.”

Borris disagreed.

Dudley filled the bowl. Borris immediately began eating with the urgency of an animal whose last meal had apparently occurred during the Bush administration.

Betty leaned against the counter.

“Good dinner.”

“Yeah.”

“Glad we could afford it.”

Dudley smiled. “Very funny.”

She kissed him and started upstairs with Jingo following behind her.

Dudley stayed in the kitchen for a moment.

A month ago, he would have answered Betty’s question with numbers. Assets, spending, withdrawal rates and market returns. Those things mattered, but they weren’t really the answer.

Dudley looked at Borris.

“We’re okay.”

Borris continued eating.

Dudley nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

He turned off the kitchen light.

Tomorrow the market would open again. Tonight, they had dinner.