Disclaimer: Article title does not refer to flatulence: "What's a little rip?"

The Mosimans take great consumer pride in getting our money's worth from our purchases.  Don't get me wrong, I slip up occasionally.  Brad is still receiving therapeutic treatment from one such slip-up:  "Hello...my name is Brad Mosiman and my wife once threw away a burnt frying pan because days and days of soaking didn't succeed in getting grease out of her way."  

We drive a 1998 Ford Ranger (original color: blue/ current color: rust) that we have babied along for years despite the public scorn and ridicule. Depreciation, defined as a loss in value because of age or wear, is a despicable concept.  Besides being the butt of countless jokes, Ranger would be considered worthless to many people.  To us, Ranger represents a decade or more of living without the burden of a vehicle payment.  Determinating depreciation, 
V = P(1-R)^n,  requires a rather mind-boggling formula featuring the following variables: V= future value, P= present value, R=  depreciation rate, and n= # of years.  What is not factored in, however, is the most important part of the equation: personal worth.  I remember being infuriated when watching litigation cases involving pets on "Judge Wapner." Someone's negligence would result in the death of a beloved four-legged friend and, should said creature lack pedigree papers, would be deemed worthless in the eyes of the law.  How much that pet meant to you personally, the value that it brought to your life, is not factored in.

Sometimes, though, depreciation helps to counteract the sometimes emotional imbalance created when one assigns too much worth to an object.  When I was hired as a middle school teacher six years ago, my husband and I went shopping for a high stool at Zeches furniture store.  Kevin Zeches graciously congratulated me on my new employment, listened carefully to what I wanted, and laughed as he led the way upstairs.  "With some imagination," he said, "I may have the perfect thing."  We walked through a forest of boring three-legged wooden stools with the customary swivel round seat.  "Ta da..." Kevin gestured toward his contribution to higher education.  Brad was immediately sold but I was rather dubious.  "You need a taller stool than most people," Kevin continued, "and look, there's a backrest."  I walked slowly around what may have been the most tricked-out bar stool that I'd ever seen.  "There's a deep-seated cup-holder for your...Pepsi," Keven coaxed.  "What about this?" I asked, gesturing to the area designated for pool-stick placement.    Kevin furrowed his brow and then immediately brightened, "Don't teachers need a yard stick!"  I was now the proud owner of a more than reasonably-priced highly-accessorized teacher stool.

It has been a perfect accompaniment to my room.  The black faux leather swivel seat and backrest is comfortable.  Hundreds of Pepsis have been nestled safely in the arms of a secure cup-holder.  The height accommodates my 5'10" form and gives me a great view of every student's paper in every phase of completion.  And yes, occasionally a yard stick finds its way to an upright position in the stool's side holster.  Students love to spin on it.  Fellow educators who find themselves in my room delight in their crow's nest view from my friendly teaching platform.  Even Chlo has had a chance to perch upon it once or twice.  Today I found a small rip in the seat.  Not an intentional dig like the one I found in the foam-filled cushioned school-bought chair situated at my back kidney-table where a bored student repetitively stabbed the lackluster, albeit innocent, seat to death.  It was almost indecipherable except to the discerning eye.  Made perhaps, from a pencil parked in a student pocket.  It doesn't matter except that it did.  I fought my temper and my disappointment.  It's just a chair.  I stewed about it all day.  All the cliches swam to the surface.  "This is why we can't have nice things."  It's just a chair.  Amy, get over it.  It's just a chair.  I finally did the math.  My sixty-five dollars divided by six years accounts to just a bit over ten dollars a year.  That's about six cents per school day.  Well-worth every swivel, every sip, every sight of an off-task doodle or exemplary paper.  It was so much more than a chair...but in the end, it's just a six cent chair that shouldn't cause me to rage or whine over a little rip.  "Hello, my name is Amy Mosiman and I don't give a rip about a little rip."  If I say my new mantra every day, it will eventually become true.