Do I deserve this cracked iPhone?

On the insidious ways budget culture finds you even when you think you’ve broken free

For more than 10 years, I’ve carried an iPhone without a case. I’ve faithfully protected this sacred device from damage in all that time. But in the span of two recent weeks, I dropped my phone twice, face-down on the concrete floor of our print shop. (2024 is proving to be a very hectic year, and it’s already fraying my nerves.)

The phone remains completely functional, but the screen now bears a light scratch from top to bottom, a web of cracks across the back, and deeper cracks along the top (which took the brunt of the first fall) and the bottom left corner of the screen (which took the brunt of the second). I’m the sort of awful person who immediately judges a person by the condition of their phone, and now I carry a phone that makes me the sort of person I’d judge very harshly with an insult that pierces me deeply: reckless.

The phone is several generations old and its lease paid off, and Verizon tells me I’m ready for an upgrade. I could comfortably absorb the extra $30 it would add to my monthly phone bill, and I could have ordered a new phone immediately after the second drop (admitting my fallibility and ordering a case to boot).

But I’ve hesitated for weeks.

It’s not money I’m trying to be frugal about, but there’s a frugality-adjacent tug in the back of my mind that tells me ordering a new phone is an indulgence I don’t deserve.

It tells me I need to face this cracked screen for a while. Rub my nose in the mess I’ve made. Suffer the consequences of my recklessness.

Budget culture has installed voices in me that are activated in these moments that feel like evidence of my irresponsibility. I might be able to hold strong against forces for actual budgeting or blatant debt shaming, but the tug toward restriction and shame still finds vulnerabilities to seep into.

Budget culture frames the choice to keep the cracked phone as financially responsible, as opposed to the option of wasting money on a new one I don’t absolutely need — and might break, anyway.

But I don’t care about the money. I’m actually just mad at myself for not being good enough to avoid damaging my phone. I’m not trying to be frugal; I’m trying to punish myself.

This is the vulnerability budget culture finds and exploits in me.

I’m not normally frugal, obviously. I spend money without shame or hesitation all the time; that $30 a month will quickly go to something else if not to a new phone.

Budget culture can’t get to me through straightforward money shaming. But a dominant and unchallenged culture is insidious. Budget culture is made up of beliefs that are embedded in you from such a young age and with such constant and subtle prodding that it can feel like this is just the way you think.

It’s that deep-seated mindset that finds me when I’m feeling self-critical. It spots an opportunity and creeps to the surface, offering restriction and shame to bolster my inclination toward self-flagellation. (Diet culture behaves the same way, tantalizing me with food restriction and body shame when I’m most down on myself.)

I’m going to order the new phone. I don’t deserve to suffer made-up consequences for accidents (and, anyway, mean-spirited punishment doesn’t work).

But this is a gentle reminder that divesting from budget culture is an ongoing and likely never-ending practice. You can’t break free — as I’d looooove to do — with one statement declaring your recognition of this broken paradigm and intention to think differently. You’ve got to keep an eye out for the sneaky ways it’ll find you, be gentle with yourself when it does, then let it know it’s unwelcome… and buy the new phone, anyway.

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