Time is Money

When purchasing an item in excess of several hundred dollars—or pounds—I prefer to research my options. Some people choose not to fret over such nuances, claiming that time is money. But this, my friends, is exactly what I mean. Money takes time. It took a considerable amount of time to make the money to buy that shiny, or delicious, or useful often useless, or entertaining thing. Perhaps it’s obvious on which side of the tracks my car stalled?

Due to a compulsion toward extensive research, my relationship with newly purchased, semi-precious items extend beyond the receipt's date. Take my digital camera for example. Last year, after months of painstaking comparisons, I bought a Cannon G7. I needed something compact, in the10 mega pixel range, more manual options than I know how to use, and capable of producing incredible shots—despite its operator. On paper, the G7 looked good. In practical application, it has exceeded all expectations.

The downside, however, presents itself in the item's absence. Absence due to theft, for example. No longer is it the monetary loss, but the loss of the gadget itself. Replaceable? Yes. Doubtful, though, to gather endurance for another quest. The next one will most likely just fill the hole. Like the “replacement” dog—acquired before the grieving dissolves. Yeah, you have a dog again, but the floppy ear and high-pitched bark somehow irritates you more this time. Fortunately, Cannon has manufactured a successor to the G7—with a few more bells and pixels.

You'd think that an easy decision such as this would let the neurosis rest. But quite the opposite. Idle energy has the potential of burning a hole in your butt. Perhaps it’s time to place emotional attachment elsewhere . . . like onto more appropriate objects . . . like my car. With enough love maybe it will decide to stall on the other side of the tracks.